I watch a honeyeater at work, the confident landing, 

the quickstep up the stem to bury its beak 

in jewel-like flowers. 

It’s been two months since lockdown and the days 

have lost their names, fashioned to soothe, 

to listen, to wait. 

With a flash of yellow wing, the honeyeater moves 

to the next cluster, its eyes bright. 

I place a hand on my 

breast where life is running wild, picture it being tamed, 

anticipate the absence. The honeyeater 

flits to the fence 

and ruffles its feathers, one falls, gently. I long to feel 

the wind through my hair, wonder 

how it will grow back. 

I watch as the honeyeater wipes its beak on bamboo 

then lifts its head to speak, 

its call a split star.