The gum is drying,
leaves turning
to pale brown,
thinning
from the tree
to the ground.
The bark
lifts
from the trunk,
separated by
the loss
of moisture,
eye-catching,
but not in a
deliberate way,
like a push-up bra.
The mites have
terminated
the stately eucalypt.
What will they choose
to feast on
next?
I feel a
quiet
terror.
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