Sunday Morning
Gumbaynggirr Country 26 Jan, 2025
The dawn chorus ended, a King Parrot (green,
female) whistles round the garden, sound
and vision shape identity. Benevolent quiet,
no church, no bells. Not a whisper from
the Pacific Highway. The village sleeps,
too early for growling garden mechanicals.
I squeeze the last of the oranges, we stand
on deck and relish familiar entanglements,
the forest is wild but refuses wilderness.
I look down, fur is nibbling our deconsecrated
vegetable garden - fetch my camera. Dürer’s hare
had ignored voices but at the faintest click
of a shutter, radar ears halt eating, eyes look up.
Does it sound like a gun being cocked?
The art of inter-species relations is on hold.
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