Like black-suited funeral directors
the currawongs assemble,
pall-bearers carrying away the remains of night,
rousing the drowsy air
with their lilting notes.
We stir, drift in
and drift out, lingering
on slumbering shorelines,
till we grope for today’s news, the radio blare
of our lives dissected in sound bites,
traffic reports clogging our motorways
and the next exit just a newsbreak away.