The butcherbird squats in the grass,
its neck twisted in an uncomfortable angle
and it doesn't move as I approach from behind
and the little miner bird hops closer in front.
I wait, hoping it isn't dead
but almost certain that I'm too late.
Then it twists its beak around,
head tilted back to look at me,
calm,
still not moving anything else.
The little bird flees, startled,
and I wait a moment more
before I too leave.
When I pass again,
moments later,
the butcherbird has left.
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