high-mettled youths jump up and down along the steel
walkway’s cantilevered arm. So much he has swept
into his listening, though he’s too young to know what
song will quicken the hens, but he doubles his gallantry

if he doubles his song, so soon he’ll add a clicking
of insects, rain’s braided glissade down the tall trunks
of gums, the barking of a dog, the knocking of possums
on timeworn wood. Perhaps, visitor, one day you might

hear, played back with amplification, your own deep
intake of breath that day you saw him raising his tail
into a silver harp, trembling it as he inverted it over
his body, leaping in time to one more mix of an engine

with the twitterings of a pale yellow robin; a whipbird
laying down a lash of whistle-whetted alarm; the multi-
tracking of parrots and wrens with a power saw – there
poised on a stage, accurately taking the day’s dictation.