afternoon turns to eveningwe wait

cockatoos call through rustling treestheir voices harsh,jeering, even—as though mocking us

with their secret language

water strokes the land’s edgewith little splashes—plop,plop.

and thenthree white speckssoar over the waterand onto the trees beyond

if we were close enough,we could hear the rustling of wingsas they landinstead,we imagine it

as though encouragedmore cockatoos make the journeywe count the splashes of whiteas though they were stars—eighteen, nineteen, twenty—now a whole group has burst from their hiding placestill more comethe air a frenzied mass of white

finally, with agonising slowness,the last one makes its way over the waterto the trees beyondthis one is the teenager, the rebelwe watch as it flutters in mid-airbefore choosing a branch to settle on

the water begins to whisper once morethe trees resume their chattersatisfied, we leave

behind us,a blanket of cockatoos stifles the trees