It’s been weird weather. Storms that brew
but don’t break, winds that strew
small branches and leaf litter,
sun and rain in equal measure,
cold so deadly it’s the talk of town,
and no one’s sure if the drought’s broken.

It’s been weird weather. Especially
this morning. Tim calls me excitedly
to the window—look, a meeting
of the birds—in the grey, fraying
limbs of the dead tree, distorted semaphore,
pink and grey galahs, hooked tooth and claw.

Tim, like me, is sceptical of allegory,
though he insists, and I agree
that the weight of the birds
might collapse the tree, their words
frenetic, ecstatic, hyped,
their perches stressed and cracked.

It’s been weird weather. A sudden
gust of wind sweeps in
and shakes the living dead,
splintering feathers, drawing red
out of the galahs’ pink chests.
An apogee of conference.

It’s weird weather. Something
had to give. Gutturals are rumbling
hollow, shreds of the tattered
sun strobe through. Tim’s dread
of what will come—broken hymns—
I will never again walk under its limbs.