November on the long sandy curve of beach that stretches
fifteen kilometres from Coolum to Noosa National Park.
Here lie the fallen muttonbirds.
Thousands of dark, neglected shapes form the wreck.
No sound or signal to show they arrived.
No squawk, shrill or chirrup from the birds in their dying moments.
This is the silent resignation of the short tailed shearwater.
Slender bills point skywards to their defeat.
Dark, smokey feathers have lost the gloss of determination.

The migration from the North Pacific in late September, via west coast America,
will not continue to the southern Australian coast.
Instead, as they lie, sand covered by northerly gusts,
a ring of crabs forms around each carcass to listen to tales of mighty oceans,
storms that buffeted,gales that pushed against their stiff, straight wings;
of the total exhaustion that sucked them down into the onshore waves.

Occasionally the strongest still sit small in head-down dejection.
Impossible to save.
Tomorrow they will join the raft of fellow travellers
telling their tales at the high water mark below the dunes;
to be stared at by beachcombers mourning the sad loss;
savoured by Brahminy kites;
sniffed at and pissed on by dogs.

Down the beach, quietly unnoticed, sprawls a similar carnage.
Circular, browning in the sun, tentacles trailing, dying.
Just a sprinkle of jellyfish.
Ignored and ugly.