dust trails
from a tractor
turning circles

From his freshly seeded paddocks, corellas rise into the air in a single panic. Several thousand, screeching, confused, confusing parrots. They settle their destruction into dark trees, fold their neat white wings and raise the question-mark of their crests.

The Farmer says, "When I was a kid, they were that rare! Once I rode my push bike twenty miles just to see a flock of twenty. Thousands now. Do a bit of damage. But look at 'em in those trees; they look just like huge white flowers."

under his hat
the blue calm
of the sky