round the corner,
the swampy oaks
are a zoetrope
for the rising sun.
every leaf has a drop
from the lifting mist,
holding light
like a crown for this ancient valley.
there is a seat,
a fallen marri tree,
where we watch wrens
pick the fruit of gumnuts,
but when I look,
I see the little bird peck
a yellowing beer tin
I close my eyes,
perhaps to thank
all the stupid people in the world,
for who else would clean up
after those who leave their shit behind.
