We gather around the tables,
linger
for the meeting after lunch,
waiting for the others,
chatting idly about holidays
and fishing hauls
and bits of work information
spilling into the brief respite.
We sit in the shade
and cling to our chairs,
so few they are,
and sip from our cans of Coke,
made with sugar.
Overhead, the butcherbird
sits on the corner of the roof
like a plastic owl,
the only sign of life-- his head
swiveling back and forth
as he takes in the scene below.
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