Dawn at the Barn

Dawn light and
a Turner mist threads across
the slope
where the white horse
rubs his nose against the persimmon tree.
A blush of seedheads
spreads across the paddocks
to mirror cirrus clouds above.

Through bluegums, the sun
thrusts shadows down the hill
toward the hollow
where a sweep of paperbarks holds
its dark silhouette
along the unseen stream.

The morning air is chill
against my arm.
A swallow swoops and
triggers
an avalanche of cries
to welcome day:
the deep whoo whoo of pigeon call;
the persistent clink of bellbirds,
redheads darting in bushes,
chirrup eagerly.
Suddenly a lilting chorus
of magpies,
the answering guttural cackle of kookaburras,
cockatoos squawk
and currawongs complete the intaglio of sound
etched into stirring air.

Lost in this singing world,
your hands surprise me
with a misting mug of tea.