The rain sheets down
in a hypnotic, grey curtain,
drenching everything
in the overgrown garden.
There has been no rain for many months,
and the grass is parched and dying.
The rain seems
to bring the garden to its sense;
soon the garden is no longer brown and dry;
it is lush, and wet, and green,
brimming with life again,
reincarnated by the early autumn shower.

The sky is covered in gunmetal cloud,
no sign of the rain easing.
Suddenly warm, soft sunlight
streams through a slit in the clouds,
bathing a withered cypress in its rats.
Then, a flash of brilliant colour
clashes with the drab background.
It glides into the pool of sunlight,
alighting gracefully on a topmost branch.
It is a male rosella,
his fully-grown feathers
shimmering with red and blue.

He stand majestically,
like a messenger from heaven itself,
staring down at the small, scaly leaves clustered on the end of a branch.
He plucks a nut from its dust-dry centre.
Clutching the nut in one of his beautifully-crafted claws,
as we would hold a nut in our hands,
the rosella lifts it to his strong beak.

Cracking the shell of the nut,
the rosella delicately eats,
his eager, wise eyes staring into space.
Then, lifting up a magnificent wings,
he draws his beak expertly
through his vibrant feathers
like a manicuring tool.
Soon his feathers are shining with health,
in neat rows
picture-perfect.

Then the rosella calls to his mate;
a strange, eerie piping call
that rings out in the still air.
The rain has stopped,
And the clouds are rolling away,
leaving a beautiful sunset
to end the storm
with a natural fireworks display.

And gliding across the sky, 
making dark silhouettes
in front of the sun
are two rosellas,
flying homeward.