Morning with Birds

I write these lines at a pine table
in a sunny kitchen, accompanied
by a wall clock's loud announcement
of each minute and the drone
of the fridge gearing up
for take off. On the grass, shadows
imitate teatree and wattle branches
shaking night and yesterday's rain
out of their leaves. Behind the hedge
traffic rhythmic as the long translucent
rollers combing empty miles of coast.
Intermittent birds inscribe the sky
with wing beats and tremolos, yellow beaks
open and close in time with the vibration
of their throat feathers. A woman
in a black and white shirt strides
the gravel lane to the gull-encrusted jetty,
her arms swinging. My hand, holding
this pen, is a shadow puppet. On the page
it makes the shape of a wren,
tail feathers erect, foraging.