The town is full of visitors and new
cockatoos.
The cockatoos come for the young eucalyptus leaves.
They fill the trees then flick themselves
into the sky
in a parody of panic or common purpose.
Their joke is endless.
The trees bow to them, it’s what they’ve
come to accept.
The visitors come in cars. They’re here for
the funeral today.
They will not be scattered, for they will
come close in
under an open roof near the centre of town
and their voices
will be there, the trees will shade them,
and the wild cockatoos
might circle further away today, wary of
such a murmuring flock
gathered
in such numbers on the ground.
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