In a crook of a branch of the Queen of Flowers tree
precariously it swayed with every breeze
reminding him of that infant lullaby

The mother poked her head out frequently
fiercely defensive of the treasure
in her small abode

This totemic treasure carried folklore
within its ingenious plaitings
a superior intelligence at work

functional and minimalist
Her crimson crest and iridescent
feathers made her

the most powerful bird in the world
as she hovered in mid-air stationary
like a helicopter searching

Her eyes reminded in dynamic flashes
the fate that befell those long ago
who broke the taboo of her death

who now on certain moonlit nights
howl their pain in lonely hours
over the well known lake of pitch

The boy approached. The mother flew off.
He saw the eggs such miniature art
and stretched his hands to touch

She zipped past his ear screeching
warning of a second totem in anger
He understood the warning dire

looked as they lay in their resplendent rest
climbed down and withdrew from the nest
The mother circled her treasure

then calmly brooded
Overhead thunder suddenly rolled
in the brightness of the day lightning flashed.