BUDGERYGAHS
the parched continent has
achieved lift-off/ of its
tiny striped mischiefs/
along the direct route of
sparsely timbered
grasslands/ budgies bring
their wings to leaf
branches/ filling in trees
along flooded billabongs
with their sweet green
cries/ the noisy swift
flight of precision &
inland aerobic activities/
reacting quickly to
nightfall & rainfall/
wandering inhabitants/
chiefly interior/ an
evening sky darkens to the
size of flocks/ my desire
for flight haunts bird
habitats/ that oddly
populated/ screech back
cheek in two syllables/
those relentless trackers
of native grass seeds/
gregarious desert
devourers/ operating in
small erratic pockets/ the
wind takes off & all the
burrs lift into air/ they
are green bullets: remote
controlled/ whipping past
the town machinery/ in
the distance a quiet old
pub/ its dusty tap hanging
off the side like a cloak
rack hook/ one red dog
lying in the shade beneath
it/ the breeze blows off a
puddle & the dog appears
to smile in its sleep/
there is something remote
about it/ take me:
preferring the company of
train tracks baking in the
sun/ of the train as it
passes & throws up dust/
the train that began: to
go nowhere/ chuck chuck
chuck chuck/ its old cargo
compartments pass
slowly/ unsettling the
bush/ while budgerygahs
shoot down the street to
civilisation/ from inside
the pub i wave them on/
ice clinks in the glass &
souvenir coasters lie
emblem up on simple
wooden tables/ all roads
lead away from this tipsy
hotel to cobar bourke &
dubbo/ the outside dog
shakes off a fly & bottles
glisten behind the bar | 
