Biofall

When I were a lad
butterflies were rampant.
So thick in the air
you could smell them.
I caught a wild boxful, kept them—
under my bed, once they died—
yet now, on seeing just one
I write home (red letter).

The Koolewong fire
sent refugees ’round:
the unseen Wonga pigeon—
old nemesis—
once again my familiar.
But where, now, my tawnies?
(that pair whose offspring’s progress
I avidly followed?)