It is that time of year again
summer passing idly by
in the tree behind
the house crows like black shadows
of themselves against
an enameled  lapis sky
peck and stab
at wild grapes   vines
escaped over dead limbs
black wings winding madly like propellers
to keep their balance
cawing that deep rough
melancholy sigh at once so comic
and so human

Branches are ripe
with every kind
of neighbourhood bird
finches flashing yellow
honey eaters currawongs                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
the resident pair of mynas
unaccountably grounded and restrained
nothing more exotic than a bul bul
could find a niche  between
these temples of concrete and brick
we have built
in a vain attempt to make ourselves
feel secure on this earth
time goes inexorably on
life takes what it needs
it is only we who have
over-burdened the supply