(A quick stroll on the way to a shop)
Not clearly visible is a narrow bank of young mangroves
as if a bed, planted, in a garden, as if in the human interest.
The first Figbirds of the season squeak overhead,
Brown Honeyeaters small as the wrens, singing strongly
zip around the trees, excited on a sugar high.
A Satin Bowerbird runs through his metallic repertoire
two female perched nearby are taking notes.
The Nyambaga has found temporary statis though scored
by shaky parallel lines, some kind of physiological measurement,
the electric fields of fish, crab scuttles, oyster respiration,
or the ubiquitous presence of Impressionism.
A vine is creeping up, past the ghost, the fig slipped down
years ago, shiny leaves are blooming, the flowers are hidden.
A fish, large enough to feed a family is trapped in a circle
with label, I don’t understand what is really going on,
nature’s way of reusing carbon atoms, suicide bombers
global finance crypto, how the future is coming too fast.
The rusting iron is a beautiful sculpture, one possible
definition being, an object of uncertain function.