Currawong, currawong on the decking rail
Bite my tongue, bite my tongue isolate out here
I envy the vigilant instinct in her yellow reproachful eyes
These boards will rot, they will rot, and I'll fall through
Under my sock, little orange mushrooms bloom
Taking root inside sodden wood sinking wherever I stood
Currawong on the decking rail
Bite my tongue, isolate out here
These boards will rot, and I'll fall through
Under my sock, orange mushrooms bloom
For their mother the young are screeching
With her beak she can end their lives
Needy pink throats are reaching
For the venom that pours from her eyes
It won't be long, till I fly away
Under the thumb of a reckoning
In the sun I’ve begun to fade
Her clawed hand is beckoning
Currawong!
The mother currawong, over the lip of her nest, watches me curl up on our rotting back deck. I often retreat here, from the cloying airs of grief and toxicity inside. I let the boards creak and moan underfoot with their rotten instability. Gazing back at her sleek feathers, I see a reflection of my own mother. How easily from her perch could she defend her chicks? Could she harm them with her fierce beak? Under my sock, a bright orange mushroom forces its way through the sodden wood, new life unexpectedly blooming. Will I break this cycle? I will soon fly away.