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.