Order of Birds

By | 1 May 2020

First are Kookaburras tipping sun into
a saucer of algid earth, into ghostly looms
of morning, slipping a cure into our
sleeping mouths. The dream world thrashes
out scenarios of human desire, subjugation,
subsides to the libertarian musings of birds
bidding for dawn. The constant access
of Thrush to diminutive rehearsed rhythms
balancing over first light, another unknown
bird rocks the ledge, picks the lock,
a sort of Woodpecker perhaps rat-a-tat-tats.
Magpie’s next, one clear chorus.
Kookaburra gathers again,
starts up its winding machine,
a contraption spitting, fitting, starting.
All the while that anonymous bird
cracks open the disc of fractious light –
gains access to the wet throat of morning.
Cockatoos are last, come screeching over the
crush of warmth as if to stifle back a divinity
whose opened gate has now discharging
un-numbered wonders; coition of the elements.
This unknown bird, a mirror, clinks far away,
dips its hot needle, its unending thread
into the light-pool, stitches a patina
over earth; extinguished gold, rusted lint.
The morning is opened, Magpie confirms it.

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