hot dogs in the property river, tangled roots,
midday light, wet clothes chucked up a muddy
bank, carp sucking in nutrients from the edge,
thrashing about, breaking the surface, brown
water slips in from behind, quick to fill in space,
i shudder, cry out, the movement beneath the
water stops, the dogs are tense, but there is no
intruder, just breasts adrift in the filtered light,
sun-branded skin, and current slapping up my
spine, as a water rat swims ashore, with an oil-
slick pelt, shaking off droplets, like a small dog
in the heat, i could easily slide back in, spewing
bubbles like a crayfish, or heavy like a log, to
be nudged aside by cattle, who come knee
deep in mud, to drink in litres in the late
afternoon, as a giant red sun sinks through the
river gums, the dogs suggest we make a move
and head for home, a hurried claw along my
leg, a wet nose to my wrist, as dusk settles on
the rough clay plains, as windy blue stars shine
out over stones, coolibah and stunted box,
and a clear cold river around a bend and then
another, to the dusty backblocks of twin rivers,
collerina and westmunda, a green tree frog
slams onto my foot, and leaps off into the
scrub, where he croaks for hours, singing of
moisture down in the dams, in a night so wild,
i cannot enter the house, with its electric lights
blaring out, where my father smokes, staring
off into space and slow-falling satellites, beyond
the window above the sink, until just on sunrise,
in the frosty morning, a magpie scrambles
across the roof, a large verandah gradually
warming, daylight creeping up the lino, lifting
the colour of faded bedspreads, gidgee breakfast
logs unthawing, tin expanding along
the guttering, smoke from the woodstove, dad
unshaven, cold suds splashed onto his cheeks,
brrrrr brrrrr, his shaving mirror and chunk of
sunlight soap, the dogs run on ahead, into the
welcome kitchen, tails gladly wagging, the smell
of browning toast, vegetable oil spitting,
fried onions and tomatoes, we arrive in time for
porridge and syrup, past my father sitting at the
table, rolling a joint, clearing his throat, as his
conversation of birds starts up, i reach out,
strike a match, put the kettle on, my eyes wide
and brown, and a smile as high as clouds,
muddy dogs with heads in feed bowls, the rain-
water boiling, words gently flowing