calling a cockatoo/summoning

a piercing
two fingers in the mouth
whistle

repeated

emitted again
leaving ears ringing
but
no other result

he gazes
a little forlorn
at the upper reaches
of the mirabelle tree

whistles again

a plum falls

two

the whistle resounds

~

forlorn
the boy turns away
returns slowly
to the house
where he looks
accusingly
resentful
at his brother

it’s not working

it won’t work

you know it won’t work

his brother
smirks
but says nothing

in the tree
a snow-white cockatoo
snacking on the golden fruit
drops another plum
to the ground

usually
it is a little more
sure-footed

~

Poem #518 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

bullace-1

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