The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, October 1, 2022

Weebill

Caught a weebill in my car grille,bird twice the weight of a hefty beetle.Only heard it when I left the bush.If it couldn't home it would likely perish.Extracted, it whirred off, copse and hollow.I couldn't drive after it, couldn't followits speed among parrots and bigger birds.I braked, and said a line of words.All wasted. Its cohort would supplyits brood with forage, if it should die.If not, it would announce its own homecomingRelearning how to slow and sing.

--Les Murray 

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