The rosellas are gleaning.
Impossibly tiny seeds they must be uncovering
because I have looked
and never identified their feast.
They nestle amongst the capeweed
seeking shelter
and obscurity.
The adolescents are discretely green
with tail feathers dusky-sooty
but daubed with the faintest of lavenders.
They disappear in the grass
but eyes tuned to movement will always         see.
Besides, they are piping, whistling,
checking in.
Reminding family members I am here,         over here.
Their feeding is meditative.
They bow heads, curl beaks under
then draw up and back like fishermen         winding in a catch.
The analogy particularly apt
because they nibble and chatter ceaselessly
like prattling reels.