I’m cozy on my zafu. It’s 4am
There’s already a concert in progress –
Kookaburra-call is the overture, raucously interrupting the murmur of toad-talk, frog-gurgle and insect-drone.
One by one the players in the beaked and feathered orchestra strike up. Sleepily at first, testing and tuning their instruments, then with confident joy shouting across to their mates with notes ever sharper and more insistent:
quick – you’ll miss
the silvering-into-gold full moon
slip below the western rim!
I throw on a shirt
stand tree-posed with the rising sun
breathing on my back.
My hair streams upwards
I sink like liquid light
below the palm-draped horizon.