Swamp Oaks

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.

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