Bring back the bush

In this clear creek
Sticks wither and rot
while sitting rocks are still
slowly crumbling
into nothing.

Ripples move on the surface
the occasional bubble here and there.
Underwater plants grow,
In this rainy desert
they take their chance.

The placement of the dead seems so certain
as a white branch rests on another,
hooked together
like they planned it.

The sounds of the bush are pervaded by the motorbike,
reminding everything here that the road isn’t far away.
It’s roaring through the top, inconsistent and nasty.
Fighting, aggressive.

The birds are pushing their song over the chorus of crickets.
The frogs are grumbling in their way.

The only living thing in sight is a green ant.

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