by Suzi Mezei

Nestlings
plummet hapless
from shaken boughs;
spat from the maw
of the shrieking storm,
they land waterlogged on deluged lawn.
Cloudburst pastes grey plume to dermis
and through water-smeared windows,
frogmouths clump like rocks.
Outside, under a thin-skinned umbrella

you collect them like fragile anomalies,
neophytes, unaccustomed to flight,
fear swirled in bulbous eyes
‘neath emergent furrowed brows,
their broad beaks achingly empty.
You touch with your palm
the stressed wet thump of heart-beat,
the vibration of low-pitched
huffs and oooms that surge
through trembling craws

to beg fretful parents out of camouflage.
The woman from Animal Rescue says
keep them warm and you bring them
inside, dab them with towels, watch the rise
of bony chests
and then the fall; those intervals
where you would gladly share
your breath. On manna gums, haphazard nests
unravel. Red-eyed at dusk, mother mopokes side-step
the ruins and call their offspring home.