Nowadays it seems to me
everything's a sign:
this pelican planing
beneath pearl meniscus
cloud cover,
wraiths of morning rain,
to alight on a rotting pylon,
scanning the mangrove fringes
for glints of silver;
three curlews watching me
of late from the shade
of a young melaleuca,
resembling three shaman-
eyed fates as I make my way
to the pewter river:
messengers in avian guise
who cross borders,
mercurial couriers, passing
from what is unknowable
to the unknown...