6. ROAD FROM HILLSTON TO COBAR, VIA MOUNT HOPE
a committee of apostle birds, tiny black eyes looking out at the world from their group,
during a morning feeding, the grey flock eating amongst leaf littered red soil,
by 1080 fox and rabbit poison, on the edge of a nature reserve, nature reserved for us,
a pine covered ridge on the road from hillston, is assembled through glimpses,
a little cemetery and a tennis court, in the middle of nowhere, like at twin rivers,
where the women all brought cake on a saturday afternoon, while the men got drunk,
too drunk to play tennis, one fell off the back of a ute and hit his head,
his dog looked concerned, it was very boring,
blue bonnets, parrots, flash red, blue, 160 km south of cobar,
it is the face of the blue bonnet that is blue, with the sky washed up its cheeks,
they have thrown a bucket of sky paint from timid cunning eye to beak, wise parrot,
the little blue bonnet in the tall open mallee, on the ground, beneath the trees,
or up in the trees at midday, or in the deep galaxy of night, extremely quiet, hard to find,
a patch of painted sky thrown up, awash and finally rested on a branch,
95 kms south of cobar, mallee ringnecks in the pine woodland
break the fatigue of the drive with colour, with a look like a started paper fire,
they pause to drink at sunrise, until the feather is lit,
there is nothing as precious as a wild bird at this moment, the flare of feathered colour,
the small squawks and workings of bird societies throughout the day of perfect weather,
the winter rainfall triggered hormones in them,
the cracking of branch and seed on the moist forage trail, deep along the shady ground,
coming into cobar, the last 30 km stretch, of white cotton, fleece of the plant,
and sheep fleece turned dust red, gone to seed, brutalised sheep, on the red clay,
hard rose quartz beneath the broken hoof, hurt cotton, soft sheep,
white-winged choughs gliding across the roads, eject their soft parachutes,
spreading their tails like fans, fanning the red earth hard,
they scoot across the road, the ground black bird of open woodland and scrub,
easy targets for shooters, when they are not still and quiet, they fall with insects in their beaks,
they say, 'we were only taking what we needed,' precious sheep, precious choughs |
