The tawnies

for Venie Holmgren

Daily walk, dusk on Maple,
an upwardly mobile family
spots me first.

One swoops from jacaranda,
golden eyed, flashing a death stare—
startles me halfway there.

Two more shadows fleet,
cryptically absorb
in cedar tree, harden.

I drop, perch low
in my gutter, house dress
riding high; knickers exposed.

Humans dwell so noisy—
clashing music, outdoor phone calls,
dinner clatter.

Temperature inversion
heightens it all, so I’m jumpy,
tugging my skirt;

my upper-deck family’s speechless—
but soon the fledgling’s
breathy hunger-whine

is unremitting;
and she dances her head
like a galah on Colorbond.

Mama, watchful tree jockey,
claw-toting hunter, rides
the sawn-off branch.

Papa stays close—bristly
whiskers, widest gape
and gouty toes.

Supper might be microbats,
moths, woodroaches—
several spiders would serve.

Respectfully chary, those tawnies
say grace till, crick-necked,
my head’s off on its sensory round:

red geranium leaf under nostrils;
cheek to feathery fans
of Persian silk tree;

sniff the equinoctial air
for Melaleuca quinquenervia,
like a koala with chlamydia.

Revisit all these on repeat—
while morrows remain.

Photo of Tawny Frogmouth from Pexels Free Photos

Also published in online journal LatinosUSA, December 2025