Tap at my window

Sunshine through the window swirling,

Trees swish-swashing in the air,

Leaves caught in the breeze whirling,

Quick splatter of a falling pear.

There should be a tap,

There should be a screech,

There should be a flap,

Yet nothing but dust on my brick wall's sharp peak.

Yet,

A machine whirring,

So much sap on the window it makes it all wet,

A not-so-gentle purring.

The machines mean her Currawongs are gone,

Now they take over her silent lawn.