So often I hear his song
at home,
at the lake,
even down here
in Quindalup.

I don’t recall it ever being so common—
maybe I was deaf to him before,
maybe we now find ourselves
drawn to the same places.

And though I hear him often,
I don’t usually see him,
as if he’s content to give
voice to the whole landscape
though the single point
of focus and body
is not required to be seen.

But today, he appears not just
nearby on branch of tree,
but on our breakfast table. 
He stands on the far edge, then hops around,
all black and white, though smaller
than a magpie,
more muscular than a lark,
more rounded than a wattlebird,
larger than honeyeaters,
black hooded, curious.

There is no food.
There is no song.

But we stay together like
that, a little while,
the grey butcherbird and me,
knowing what he is capable of,
knowing the way he experiences
and expresses this place,
revealing the small form
that gives voice to it.

The whole in part,
condensed.