The lagoon is full of machines: small ones in the reeds
tocks and bocks, little clocks; a larger one maybe a fox (!)
on the rocks by the reeds. The reeds are reading
wind-borne frequencies – a rippling gamelan
repeating lines and phrases to the life within:
warbler, egret leaning spring-blade ballerina.
And in the ooze and the air, everywhere bacteria
re-coding the dead in cells, sugars, ammonia.
The air is full of machines: fluff and dust and fungi
spores in my nose, and hair; and here, the ruined tree
with six, no seven ibis perched as dog and I near.
Proximity alarm, off they fly honking unhappily.
Tin flies fuck on my forearm, coiled DNA buzzed fly-to-fly.
The ancient paperbark braces the 50-foot sky;
on each branch a cormorant, gaunt black ornament.
The lawn, a million blades increase ceaseless cellulose.
Now the Sun from grey, great engine of all and the new day.
Image: Angeleses c/- Pixabay; A morning stroll on a foggy morning.
And for those of you on the road this season, here’s Kraftwerk from 1974 (watch out for that truck).