the trees are roaring rising coruscations
as the wind sounds up their voices to the sky
bassi grow from initial susurration
the thought they sang already on the fly
three magpies warble quiet ululations
honey birds squeak and titter where they lie
kookaburras exhaust themselves in gay abandon
not quite an orchestration but they try
the leaves hear it all as a kind of dance tune
they twirl together flutter as they sway
while the breeze has modified the trees song
and a thrush calls out the next number they will play
© Frank Prem, 2014
