The morning begins with water.
It gathers on the leaves.
It gathers around the rim of the pitcher.
Light enters the forest.
The pitcher brightens.
Its colours become visible.
There is nectar along the rim.
An insect arrives.
It lands.
The surface is firm beneath its feet.
There is food here.
The insect moves towards it.
Further down, the surface changes.
The walls become smooth.
The insect slips.
It tries to climb.
There is nowhere to grip.
The rim is above it now.
The insect moves again.
The pitcher holds its shape.
Below, the liquid waits.
The insect falls.
For a while there is movement on the surface.
Then less.
The forest continues around the plant.
Leaves move in the air.
Water drips from one leaf to another.
A bird passes overhead.
Another insect lands on a neighbouring plant.
The pitcher remains open.
It does not pursue anything.
It does not need to.
Its shape has already done the work.
Later, another insect arrives.
This one remains near the edge.
It takes nectar.
It moves away.
The pitcher has not caught everything that visits.
Some things come and leave.
Others do not.
The plant grows.
New pitchers appear.
Older ones darken.
Rain falls.
The liquid inside is diluted.
The forest floor receives fallen leaves.
Small organisms move through them.
The pitcher stands above the ground.
Its opening is turned towards the light.
At its edge, the world keeps arriving.
An insect.
A drop of rain.
A small piece of leaf.
A thread of wind.
The pitcher receives them differently.
Some remain outside.
Some enter.
Some become part of the plant.
The boundary is not a wall.
It is a way of taking part.
As the afternoon passes, the forest becomes warmer.
The pitcher casts a narrow shadow.
Another insect comes.
It follows the scent.
It reaches the nectar.
It moves further inward.
The smooth wall gives way beneath its feet.
It falls.
The plant remains still.
Nothing dramatic happens above the trees.
The forest does not pause.
But inside the pitcher, something has changed.
What was moving is no longer moving.
What was outside has entered.
What entered will become part of what the plant can use.
Evening comes.
The light leaves the pitcher.
Its colours disappear into the darkness.
The rim remains wet.
The liquid remains below.
The plant is still there.
Open.
Waiting.
Not for something in particular.
Simply shaped in such a way that the world can enter.
Night settles over the forest.
The pitcher holds its small pool of darkness.
Above it, leaves move in the wind.
Below it, roots continue through the soil.
And within the quiet cup, another life has become part of the life of the plant.
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