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JAMES CHARLTON
Birds
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i
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A
gust of starlings dribbles
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to a
ping pong
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bounce-down.
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They
wadd-waddle along
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and
take off together,
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like
an umbrella opened in a hurry.
- The
lawn resembles a colander
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and
the sky
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scattering of poppy seeds.
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ii
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The
curled lip of our bird-bath
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is
worn thin with claw-cuts.
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Each
day: a wet, demented knit-a-thon
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of
single needles in descending size....
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Wattlebirds
wipe epaulettes
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and
lower the water for the lesser honeyeaters,
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easing
their click and cast-off.
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Badges
bob and dip. Fledgelings shuffle in a queue.
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A
wagtail crochets the air.
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iii
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A
tiny sampler
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of
delicate stitchery
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hangs
from a black tack
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which
flicks amongst the scale insects.
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A
kookaburra glides up
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in
flak jacket and baseball cap
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to
unpick the stitches.
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You
make of this what you can,
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i.e.
sport scrags the arts
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and
bags the loot.
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iv
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A
honeyeater hits a window,
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lies
upturned. We cradle it
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and
chirrup to the parents,
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restive,
near. Their baby squats
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upon
an open palm - head tilted
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to
assess us, calm.
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The
world this day's unfallen.
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Life's
no longer further on,
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or
next;
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but
now
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and
slow
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and
cradled in a choice
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to
either stay
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or
go.
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