We walk down the fire trail unable to unsee
red ribbons of death tied to the tallest Blackbutts,
turn into Jagun open to possibilities, the Elkhorn
sharply stencilled, the Grass Trees still spiking
empty, furry flowerheads. A fine-looking termite
home reminds me of a wadge of fresh black opium.
I luxuriate in the green scent in the heart of the forest
where rainforest elements remain, as if from that
originary forest, long before eucalypts evolved.
We cautiously close on a Whipbird, but feet away
the blur flees through a snarl of vines (over one hundred
species wrapping round here) as if wasting our time.
Two fruiting bodies bloom from the shadows inside
a hollowing log, hygro-happy, stained with spilt
red wine, probably edible, definitely wonderful.
Underground the work is done, delicate networks
spread from this broken tree, feeding beneath our feet.
We owe leaving nothing to chance or to waste.
