We drive the road
by the limestone caves
down towards Bornup forrest
and the karri trees.

We drive in a bit, then walk 
a quiet backroad
of orange-brown dirt
and limestone teeth
poking up at times.

Katie and I walked this same
stretch last summer,
drier.

The karris stand as straight as ever,
their bark having peeled off, white
already beneath, leafed beardings up the trunks
or lignotubers sprouting up below,
following the fire of a couple of years ago.

Beneath them, on the forrest floor,
mostly hazels, but also bracken ferns.
Not many birds.

At one point I stop and ponder a moment,
we here—Americans. Australians—
human beings as namers, naming all these things.
Old names, like karris.
I try to find the depth
of the being of the thing in front of me,
then try to match it to the depth of the name
that rises up from within.
Karri.
And I say it out loud.
“Karri.”
And the world is restored.

And from this,
something is
and can be 
made.