Cockatoo (April)

Wye River always enjoys his lemon quiff, his broad shoulders, commanding look. He’s come down from his height to clean up the grain offerings. He sharpens his beak on a railing, tugs a wet suit drying there. Pure white feathers, unmistakeable sharp screech. He resumes his repast of post-fire goodness, corn, scattered sunflower seeds. His proprietorial swagger predates squatters. There’s one, then two, four, eight, sixteen descend in a friendly argument. Their table manners are appalling. Parrots and firetails retire to corners, enjoying April warmth. It’ll only take a noise, a thought, and the flock lifts off for pickings elsewhere.