In a forest of spotted gum

other birds may interrupt

the air between eucalypts, perch

like an afterthought on a branch,

we never see bellbirds. They come

to us as pure sound: a light ting!

in front, to the left, behind

and to the right; they loop around

like Fire Music, bewildering

we who dwell aground. Stand still. Wait.

No nightingale in a dark wood

sang as they, who articulate

all the thoughts of the forest mind

that Kendall never understood.

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