Only a currawong dialing the neighbourhood
only the moon I heard ring off the glass mountains
morning thrown like a newspaper
over lawns riffled as oyster beds.
No car here starts simply, without a cigarette,
without grinding its teeth.
The world adjusts itself,
an actor readying before the lights come on.
The clatter of a runabout motor,
recognisable but detached from its source
winches upwards, a rickety scaffold of sound
balanced on the lake’s soft platform.
Someone on the early shift hurries for the bus;
that slender gesture of obedient acceptance,
fingers to ears, nothing more
than the retention of an earpiece.
Half Way Down the Stairs 2010