Dawn Chorus

The soft morning rain

drips from the tree overhanging

The hut,

And an orchestra of raindrops

Sounds on the tin roof

And the wooden steps.

The twitter of small birds;

The tight crescendo of the whip-bird;

The single note of the Bell-bird;

The sharp, single croaking cry of another,

Are the percussion sounds

That complement the sweet melody of rain

As it softly falls in the mist.

To me, a melody;

To the percussive birds -

A life of peril.

To me, a beautiful dawn chorus;

To the birds, another sun-up,

Another day of living.

The call of the Butcher Bird,

So lovely and melodious that

It's name belies its song,

Is aptly named,

For meat is what it wants.

To me, so beautiful.

To him, so hungry.

And through this mist and rainy morning

How should I reconcile these sounds.

Percussive instruments of song,

or solo travellers?

My breathing becomes taught,

and I turn my mind

To my own song

As I make breakfast.

A respiratory tightness

Catches my breath,

I don’t know the answer.

But I plough on, with the rain and the mist and the birds

Outside my window

And begin to breath easier.