Cockatoos flower dot the camphor laurel.
I whistle to them, get some response.
Elton John on TV supplies a jazzy background.
His piano keys in tune with plumes furled,
then unleashed
as if to say we hear you.

And the flying fox are flying in.
Distant ideograms
against the evening framed,
against highrise.

A jet joins them.
Coming in from....?
Blinking lights,
anxious passengers
getting ready to translate.

Another jet intersects more flying fox.
Innocence.
Soft infinite light,
as I stand here so drunk and vulnerable
at year's end.