afternoon turns to evening
we wait
cockatoos call through rustling trees
their voices harsh,
jeering, even—
as though mocking us
with their secret language
water strokes the land’s edge
with little splashes—plop,
plop.
and then
three white specks
soar over the water
and onto the trees beyond
if we were close enough,
we could hear the rustling of wings
as they land
instead,
we imagine it
as though encouraged
more cockatoos make the journey
we count the splashes of white
as though they were stars—
eighteen, nineteen, twenty—
now a whole group has burst from their hiding place
still more come
the air a frenzied mass of white
finally, with agonising slowness,
the last one makes its way over the water
to the trees beyond
this one is the teenager, the rebel
we watch as it flutters in mid-air
before choosing a branch to settle on
the water begins to whisper once more
the trees resume their chatter
satisfied, we leave
behind us,
a blanket of cockatoos stifles the trees
Sydney, Australia
