In the rush hour we drift like autumn leaves
Along the pavement to see the big blue digger.
We are winding down after an active day.
Drivers, freed from the zebra crossing,
Tear along the dotted line of our road.
A plane’s roar sucks bird song from gardens.
The police chopper drills a hole in our sky.
A bustling bus like a hive of bees,
A sports car gurgling with catarrh,
The train like Uncle blowing his nose.
The shudder judder of a parking car
We wave to the digger then turn for home.
Bye bye, digger. Bye bye.
Tane points between the plane and the chopper.
Moon, he says, then again, Moon.