It occurs in the slur of morning

When the birds have been fed

And survivors of the feast

Wriggle and squeak on the surface.

Bits of insects roll and search

For pieces of themselves

In the bloodwet grass

As the sun bursts.

Waiting for the rain

To soothe and manoeuvre

Those that are left

Chanting on the grass.

But they are not afraid

Of what is above

As they creep and slither

Never failing, never looking up.