a Journal of Poetry and the Arts
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Return of the Currawongs
Out of the sea-fog currawongs came back
after an absence in the mountains; great
black clanging birds, they sought clear air
and found my bird table with smaller birds
assembled, as yet unaware that fate
had ended their security. I heard
the trumpet tones and matched responses,
saw the dark shapes in the branches
and more swooping through the sky;
uproarious jubilation ringing high,
they celebrated their return to where
they fed last spring and summer. Here
they now could rear their hungry young
until, as hoodlum birds the youngsters soar
to mountain forests to absorb the law.
Iridescent threads are home enough for morning spiders,
toilers of the night. Industrious architects whose silk tents
blow in fineness beyond delicate. Arachne's children's viscous
trail of silk is spilled from secret stores to reel on paths of air.
Silk glides from out their spinnerets and soon the fragile ladder
lifts the spiderling into the breeze and off it floats with fate
to take the wind's way. Morning light maps where they journey
in the dark; etched across branches, links from flower to post.
Perfect woven wheels fixed fast to fence and tree trunk. Only
early sun illuminates this lace to show their secret places.
We who wonder about deities suspend our disbelief at dawn.