baby bird

  in a pearlescent gloom
   where voices penetrate unheard
       like bird beat carols
 or the milky secrets of she-oaks
            we three (the off-white dog,
      and sadness and I)

               share a moment
          crooning for a currawong chick
                 fallen among the detritus
                              of last night’s storm
                snail trails and pine whiskers
        and the scribbled stains of gum leaves

                        to footpath’s toneless surprise
its yellow beak aghast
its tiny open eye
     featherlets glued and still
               
                        some driver, 
             (drunk on humidity’s schooner
                   hurtling into slavish streets
                         where future tense is a fog)
              lifts my hand
              and my phone
              and takes a photo

five strides
       and I’m slashing the screen
        dashing delete with finger’s stub
        unconscionable shame

           and pushing sadness back
           while the dog and I
           rebuke the morning with our noses