Wintering in the elms, the currawong
yodel grace-notes
over and over the same melody
crying territory.
One comes close hopping along
the chilly balustrade
getting a grip, curious, courageous
or hungry, maybe.
Head tipped back a top note pitched
clears the cold sky.
Again that pitch, again that
clarity.
I catch her eye, she flies
off in grey plumes
butcher beak hunting
fresh meat.
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