As cumuli mass in platoons
over Tribulation
they strike me as bones of a whale
but what they are for real
are supplicant fingers of pure palm
tumbled by the muscle of a cyclone
Fronds shudder and click
like pelican beaks
in times of famine
tearing breasts open
to feed chicks
straight from the heart pure blood
leaving stigmata
on parchment feather
In drought they quietly
pile the dead for shade
roll eggs into death cairns—
little abortions cloud about
skirts of Kati Thanda—Lake Eyre
not here where death comes in all weathers
peace time rare as ambergris