The tussocks roll,
Like an invisible hand stroking the soft fur of a puppy,
Or choppy waves on a bay.
It is soothing to watch.
It caresses my eyes.
I can observe insulated in the sanctuary of my warm vehicle.
The stands of trees I pass are another matter,
Ferocious in their calisthenics.
They bend, whip and quake alarmingly.
I prefer to watch the grass.
Then I come upon a gang of White Winged Choughs.
They are on the road, sheltering in a cutting.
As I approach they simultaneously rise in the air.
The blast they meet, causes them to rise slowly,
And make a gentle backwards arc.
Flashes of white break up the black.
They arch their backs unnaturally,
back paddling into the sky.
