March #1

Their Song

Corellas?

They tell me of lost

country, of

stolen generations:

once in this town

they were thousands

now counted in dozens.

Silent Spring? Not yet

but soon.

I listen to their screaming

keenly, translate

their screeches into

my own outrage

my fear of stealth and story

that justifies theft.

Their community voice

pierces the certainty

of self-interest.

“Too many!”

“I hate that noise!”

“They destroy my orchard,

everything!”

“I hate them!”

Their dispatched  feathers –

fluffballs, quills, faintest

orange or lemon on white –

I stuff in my pocket.

Their views are aerial

and urgent; they shake

elm and eucalypt

with equal fervour

having careered across roads

and paths above

hostile tribes.

I prevent collected feathers

from drifting away.

It is that insistent

commentary, their claim

to country – unreconciled,

unrecognised – our ears

do not want to receive.

It is a wordless song

a treetop rant

we have never

learned to assimilate.

— Jennie Fraine