Bellbirds echo each other from the swamp across the road where the red red flax heads shoot tall and thick.
Slowing down, I become aware of a low hum of flies, and a drone of bees a tone and a half higher. They love rasberry and hebe.
I’m contained and sheltered in my tree-ish circle among the dandelion shoots which sneak up illegally in the bark.
Sparrows slip in stealthily to slip off with bits of vogels crust.
The ti-tree overhead is alive with flying insects – A brass band! Bagpipes! Tinnitus!
A piece of leaf swings on a single long cobweb. My old eyes see it double.
A sparrow lands on an “ancient ruin” recently created by Nicolette from local pumice. Her fat pottery bird, under the real bird, has cracked in the weather.
This is nice enough to be worth bringing out a cup of tea and a cushion.
A small fly drowns in my tea while I’m eating chocolate.
Sunshine between clouds encourages them all to crescendo.
I shut my eyes and I could be in the eye of a hurricane,
a squeezebox of buzz,
a somnolent chainsaw
translating patterns of buzz.
South Paw 