by Nicholas Perkins
The urge of stones that stir this stream to rise and ripple means moon-time. Those flowers bloom and bend to welcome fish now biting. Cicadas sing that sun is hot and fruit is fat, but try find them They’ll find you, with their pissing-down, in the dry times. It’s that fox that sees you now. Lock eyes and feel what he recognises. Not so different, you two, frantic in your fevered test of friend or foe, dumb to the deep talk down. Nicholas Perkins lives in Sydney. He works in education and has been a primary school principal, with a background that also crosses the arts, neuroscience and behavioural ecology. Poetry and music are Nick’s preferred media for personal meaning-making.
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May 2023
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Photo used under Creative Commons from John Donges