Waiting for the Rain

Restless. The wind a pressure, an equalization come to heat
and violence. And the garden, just a hill-top field between
forest and more forest. Who could say it is an indulgence?
Elaboration of plumage concealed now at midday. Brush box
and red cedar, transiting down northwards to a stand
of blue gum, with pine a boundary wind-break to the west.
Turbulent paradise, thirsting. Only the bell-birds active
in their harvesting and destroying, and in that, insistent.
Their unremitting turbine, and behind that another turbine
of some greater force, and that, only just held-back.