Some Birds

 

Some birds fly off and away home

in a sullen mood for graphic violence,

the meat-eating variety.

A few possums minced, 

my co-pilot noted.

How they contribute

to the peculiarities of the habitat,

local parrot happy,

tears crashing down from the sky

for welcome hygiene.

Some birds take to the air and head home,

wings no longer a remnant,

a testimony to the great past

of ostrich, of dodo,

but a kind of principal desire for moa.

 

*

Your body feels so stiff, 

my co-pilot observed,

disoriented into submissiveness.

Some

and away birds fly

home,

ready to massage, right there, yes,

I didn’t mean to be so…

the road meandering

like nothing ever happens.

 

*

The aboriginal owl looks left and listens,

as he does on sleepless nights,

persistently perkily,

eyes shut, ears pricked up,

the year minus five hundred, give or take,

the universe revolving fast

but the ideal imaginary island nation

ideal still. Oh yes, she is,

with the most tunable silver something

sound as yet

unknown, having the power,

do you hear it?