Past the top of the hill, upriver,
for some reason I’m called to notice more
the ground beneath my feet.
Grasses: 
ones that look like
little stalks of dwarf wheat,
still green. 
Others, same height, looking more like
tiny, flat trees with double seed-leaves springing
opposite each other,
like they’ve been flattened in a book.
Then ones like tiny umbrellas with their
fabric ripped off in the wind,
the frame still standing.
And the seeded leftovers of the 
so-called cape-weed, ready for
harvest by galahs and cockatoos.

Many plants part of the one plant,
life-filled and blooming.