August is cold Merri Creek, a black slow lucid surface of overhanging
expanses, pockets of sky, irregular cloud. Those overhangs are gentle now,
eucalypts clustering levels of leaves that pointedly accommodate the coming
heat. Long trunks, that found a toe-hold on the grassy inclines, lean and
lift with insistent authority, directly above slow coordinated water. Amidst
this canopy of dull greens and fragile browns, foliage taking its turn, exists
the all-out effortless circle of a golden wattle. Another writer would call it
startling. Soft and resolute, it lends gold now to the water. Birds step in and
out of it.
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