The Understory as a Poem

When the water is green because the trees are green,

a writhing impressionist painting,

vines like veins held up to the light,

snaking and twisting through the canopy, and

when the sunlight streams through the trees, 

dappled yellow patches of warmth 

peppered across the forest floor, 

showering the white–lipped tree frogs 

and the swallowtail butterflies 

and the ringtail possums 

with freckled glowing spots,

and when 

the wrens and honeyeaters 

streak across the sky like

careful smears of paint,

floating and fluttering and falling

through the white gums,

you feel it.

The superorganism:

unfaltering, relentless

the understory as a poem, 

the steady hum of life

crackling and hissing and buzzing,

and

breathing in a deep, 

earnest breath.