I thought they were a bird. Or rather, birds. On a branch, flocking. Out on a limb, imagination sparking. The mind can transform, as can fire, with tongue, laughing. Like a tired owl, hiding its eyes, the banksia misplaces birdsong, not singing. But rather in bloom. A thousand individual flowers spiral upward as feather. Beneath all of this, banksia has beak. Here, seeds speak of sleep, dormant. When fire comes, there is a shift. Things are consumed, into ash transform. Afterward, the banksia beaks sing, release seed on wings. And the wind carries this new song along to soil, darkened, so green can grow, feathering.