A quiet square in a town birthed after the war.
Slowly crossing the grass.
White feathers from a thousand cockatoos speckle the ground.
They call to each other between silver gums that dance and sway.
Tepid rain falls from a steely sky.
A warm breeze blows through my hair.
I sit with a lonely cow.
Eating freshly fried potato.
The salt brings out the sweetness.
We watch the farmers with their sun etched faces together as they go about their business.
Oblivious to, and yet part of the beauty of it all.
I think to myself
"This has the makings of a poem if I weren’t just stating facts."
"I should probably get back to work."
