The lorikeets

Every morning, for months now,

the lorikeets have come at dawn

to the flowering gum by my window

and for thirty minutes or so

their raucous chattering silences

the noises in my head.

Even the bossy red wattlebird—

this garden’s self-appointed guardian—

must step aside and wait it out

on the tin roof of the potting shed

for the visitors to feed from the frilly

magenta flowers and leave.

I don’t know if lorikeets dream

but if they did, they would arrive

just the same and then fly away

leaving me with my burden:

what should I do today?