Sightings: Around, About, Among i. Currawongs—so much this country —that despite its yellow eye, the sense all is judged, calculated by scales hard and undeviating, it is the lingering, incongruous syrup of their call early evening, among pines, out of mist drifting up the escarpment, like a curfew, saying the lonely sea of the dark is here, it is now cold, and this is no place for you.     ii. Of mist: out of the threads of it, like a tatty shuttle, back into it, its scrawny tail trailing as if combed, a lyrebird skitters across the road as…