I live
in the open mindedness
of not knowing enough
about anything

~ Mary Oliver, from ‘Luna’

Up there
in a tree behind the coffee shop
above a backyard cubby house
along my path to home:

a grey ball of fluff
perched beside a fork.

Koala? Baby koala?
my mind chirps.

Not here
in suburbia
but enough
to halt my feet
call me off the gravel
and sink my knees into scratchy grass.

I gaze up
in something like worship
not exactly

saturated sight
buzzed by an encyclopaedic flicker

then slowing
to muse:
that head, spinning right around
to spy a passing dog:

tawny frogmouth?

Those feathers, fluffed and drawn
through an alleged beak:

is it to clean
or preen
or be busy with a purpose
beyond our lobe?