The Bush City

As I step down a step, down a path, through the green, before my own eyes, the bush paints a scene 

A painting of a world that I've never met, as the bush city thrives while the sun starts to set

Streets of damp trees form the suburbs of sand; apartments of insects cast shadows on land

Streetlights of sunshine light, roads through the trees, guiding slow traffic of march flies and bees

An atmosphere buzzing as flies buzz away, as the snake on the hillside decides where to stay

Each worker a job, each day with its end, this month's bush rat meeting around the next bend

The city's sharp sounds are replaced by the call of a mayoral Kookaburra, surveying us all

Trams and buses of ants busily bustle past, laying tracks in the dirt, all fearless and fast

The cockatoos put on their black suits and white ties as they work grueling hours, patrolling the skies

And a lizard who climbs up a flight of bark stairs ignores all the people who absently glare

You can't see their city, nor feel with your hands; but under your nose, a metropolis stands

We mustn't step wrong in this place where we go, for the bush city matters much more than you know