John Grey

Brolga Dance                                         
 
I was less than fifty yards away,
camouflaged by mulga.
 
Long and slender birds gathered
on a stretch of plain.
Their legs were gray,
heads green and coral red,
and some had dark pouches
flapping beneath olive-green beaks.
 
Each strode like a participant
in a ritual, every so often
making hoarse cries
that echoed in the mouths of others.
 
One picked up loose grass,
tossed it in the air,
then caught it in its bill.
The bird then launched itself,
with wings spread wide.
for a few feet in the air
and, once it alit on solid ground,
performed a sacrament
of neck stretching, bowing,
strutting, calling out and head-bobbing.
 
The bird who had watched
the performance most intently,
then joined in.
Others formed pairs,
went through a similar routine. 
like they were getting up
some English country dance,
a Sir Roger De Coverley for brolgas. 
 
The sun shined brightly on their backs
and scattered trees lent contrasting shadows.
What I can recall of it,
no doubt strips these actions of their true purpose,
to become more like a dream of my own making.
Yes, I dream it still.
 
I stayed until, courtship over or merely suspended,
they flapped their wings vigorously,
took off as ungainly as
their ceremony had been feather-smooth
before reclaiming grace in a wheeling, soaring flock
that disappeared beyond the hills.
 
I stepped out from behind my cover,
traversed their now-empty makeshift ballroom.
Never had solitude
felt so much like applause.
 

The Rowing Eight on the River
 
First watch the eight.
They row with such vigor,
such intensity,
with arms that never let up.
Every sinew is stretched
to breaking point
then released like
an archer’s bowstring.
Each back is taut,
every eye as coldly fervent,
as a stalking cat’s.
Each knuckle reddens
where oar handle
fights back against
human willpower.
 
Then watch the boat.
It glides as if there’s no
propelling force involved
but breeze,
and the river surface
is an ally
not an adversary.
 
Then take in both together.
It’s like that madly paddling,
smooth drifting duck,
only upside down.
It takes a lot of work
for there to be no work involved.
And there’s pain behind
every moment of painlessness.
I lie back on the bank,
caught up in the contradictions.
A duck floats by.
He has no idea what I’m talking about.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.