In that first season
I kept encountering Lyrebirds:
their small, proud heads; the profusion
of their tails. Surprisingly brown
they were casual in their observance of me
before scratching again at the ground.
I would stand
in quiet contemplation of their daily occupation
still as a tree
before I, too, went on
with what was essential to me:
the prayer of walking.
I would hear them rustling off to one side,
these solitary rangers of the bush,
keeping me company.
Some cockatoo, or other, would screech in delight.
31 March 09