Though mostly obscured by the rocky headland

at the mouth of the inlet, the piping

whistles of a small flock of oyster catchers

could be heard throughout the day, and most

of each evening too. One late afternoon

a trio of these stocky birds with their

slightly fussy call flew in formation past

our balcony piping away – on show

red beaks, pink feet, white rumps. And I thought

how seldom things rhyme in our dissonant

world, and that – to roughly paraphrase

Aristotle – coincidences merely

are accidents that rhyme.