My father observes the dust lanes of the Milky Way

over Echo Point. I open his guide book of constellations
as he spots the Emu in the Sky—the brooding body

of a colossal bird, arched in the autumn night.
In May, the bird runs across the sky, my father says.

Look at its legs and neck. I follow the wand
of his index finger and watch the emu emerge

in a patch of deep magenta—a dark anomaly
in the milk of scattered light. When I see the map

of stars back home, it is always you in the sky,
my father says. My fledgling bird, forever little.

I feel his fierce love. And the depth of his sadness—
the distance between us has grown into a crevasse

too wide to bridge. One blurred week in the heart
of winter is all we ever get. Will you return home?

he asks, still perusing the stars. The eucalyptus rustles
below—Katoomba is a carpet of restless green,

glowing in anticipation. I look up at all my dreams
pencilled in the antipodean sky. The silence

grows stony. My father’s eyes, like the rumpled stars,
briefly lose their lustre. I want to tell him

that I have never been dazzled by flashy constellations,
that I am in love with the underdog—that I aspire

to be like this glorious bird-shadow that dares
to claim space between the Southern Cross

and the luminaries of the night. I am home, I whisper,
pointing to the emu. As we linger in the darkness,

I pray my father will understand. When spring comes
I will set across the seas on my annual voyage.

The night skies will alchemize and the sprinting emu
will be a featherless entity, crossing Country, seated.

My father will stargaze from a different vantage point.
I will return to the nest—a hatchling again, in his palm.