A Summertime Crescendo

They call the kookaburra king of the bush,
He laughs and laughs and just won't shush,
His morning calls are a loud ambush,
And will wake you up if you need that push.

The afternoon brings a wild whir,
Of whooshing and whizzing, it's all a blur,
Mum slaps and swots - she's causing a stir,
As the fly flurries around her.

As I go to sleep, the crickets trill,
Their chirps cut through the nighttime chill,
Like sizzling plates on a crackling grill,
Vibrating until all is still.

The painted lady glides with the breeze,
Her wings whip above the bottlebrush trees,
Quietly whispering through the leaves,
Like soft lullabies on summertime eves.