Lights in Dry Nights

I am stunned
by a spider's
fixed stare.
The full moon,
an orange glow,
rises in another
swallow-settled evening,
of noisy scuffles in
dry leafy mulch,
decayed from days,
months, years
of drought. `Roos
are dying. Without
water we shall all die.
Red hens leap
Lauren Jackson style.
Lift up, stretch tall for
dangling fat black mulberries.
Juices keep them alive.
Spinebills sink into
honey'd banksias.
I keep my cup ready
to catch liquids,
whatever there is.