Midmorning, the cockatoos take flight,
settling in the top of the palm trees,
on the sloped, corrugated metal roofs,
on the top of posts and satellite dishes,
and in the weak imitation of grass
growing in the red dirt around the site.
Then they begin to squawk and chirp
and whistle, only ever one or two birds
at a time, the sound going around in rings,
like The Wave inside a sports stadium,
each burd responding to the previous
and I stand in the center to listen.
No comments:
Post a Comment