Bees are here, near the twisted trunk
tortured bark and a clever lean, back
from the house. Normally,
the tree’s lime green leaves are plenty.
Today, outside my window, the melaleuca
crowned in minute brushes, creamy-white
nods a silent scream and I dream
of a repeat season of this time last year
when I glimpsed a wattle-bird
perched there. His cackles
caught my attention before he zipped away
leaving open slather for the blares
of glary lorikeets and me bewildered
by his blending apparel.