I go further today
in the same time,
surprised to find
it’s so light out so late.
A Willy Wagtail skitters
about the bitumen road,
pecking decisively
at invisible things.
Ants? I wonder,
spotting a trail
dancing in frenzy
across my path.
I notice the roof
that the crows like
is a high gable
with attic windows —
mad in this climate,
but at least they’ve used
that sun-reflecting paint
and the house is white.
Returning up my hill
I skirt the magpie and greet
the terrier who always
rushes to his gate and barks.
I grew up in a town
of hilly streets
with grassy nature strips
and clean air like this.
The crows’ house
has a stand of bamboo
along the fence. My Dad
used to grow bamboo.
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