well fiddle dee-dee. Typo adjustment post.
Passerine
It starts at the back of the throat
the notes that choke like the acacia thorns
buried in the leaves you gave me.
Here the wind will always come
over the moutains with its oily dust
on the iridescent wings
of the Little Green Bee-eater
returned to sing again
in the pepper tree.
He shrugs off the silver overcoat
that shadows every leaf and feather
shakes his shoulders - knocks the wasp
loose from its poison dart.
I have learned to live on things
that sting, always catch it
on the wing, keep enough to love,
to sing.
Hmmm...I like both iterations!