Splendid Fairy-wren

In moments when I am feeling a little blue, 
a memory resurfaces more frequently miles away from
Wadandi and Pibelmen Boodja. 
A lonely boy woken early by Grandma to witness
a twirling, azure swirling: the performing of
your little dances at dawn’s early hush.
Foraging to snap up crunchy creepy crawlers,
boasting cobalt-blue feather gusto – you prideful male fairy-wren! 

It has been years later and I keep forgetting 
the need for temporary escape 
from the rigid hustle-culture city.
It only takes an hour or so –
one commutes that to work, anyway. 
The time to bush walk, arm clasped by a lover 
is now an event. Why? 
When did intangible electronic programs (inside a small box) become
more deserving of one’s attention than
birdsong: pure ripples that make following silence sweet bitter?