On The Third Of September

Out there on the hillside the hunting fox cry And the call of the boobook echoes in the night sky And the silver billed magpie in the moonlight sing For to proclaim his borders in the early Spring. The voice of the spur wing plover none could ever mistake In his breeding Season he is always awake His wife on her nest and with eggs and young to defend At this time of year none to them is a friend. The chill of late Winter in the early Spring breeze And male brush tail possums are snarling as they fight on the trees For territory and for females they do fight The winner to mate he has earned the right. The freshening breeze tells of approaching rain And the breeding frogs sing in the pond and the drain And the creatures of the night all around me I hear On the third of September in the Spring of the year.