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.