At Bunga

The rain
ceases, bird sounds
rise from the forest gullies, echo
across the clearing,
Mt Gulaga becoming visible, something
ending, something beginning, the first
smoke of nightfall
thin over the canopy,
     deep of it
rising steadily through the trees.

From these particulars
what generality? Some
honesty of the heart perhaps, honest
doubt? honest
helplessness?

Rain
comes again, and the birds
cease; beneath their silence
frogs, crickets, the run
of water in guttering, patter
of overflow — soul
opening, drawing breath.