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ON THE BACK OF THE UTE
panorama and dog saliva, we are leaving the property behind, to reflect upon itself in the grey flood water, we are heading into town, to do some simple shopping and have a quiet drink, i'm watching the world go by, the winter sun filtering down, roughed-up and wind-blown, on the back of the ute, splinters of rock press up through the soil, kangaroos decide to hop away, as the dogs and i take in the stream of bush, we are blind to details, continually letting go, over every second of road, we are life-sized, our heads in the sky, the shredded exhaust and retreads roaring, bumps and potholes, patches of bulldust, the vibration of corrugation, an 80km per hour wind to howl and rattle collars, the high sun to heat my arm against metal, and a hat pushed on with my other hand, in case the big gale lifts it sideways, washaways, causeways, cattle grids, floodways, long orange trails leading inland and twisty dirt roads to stick to, each side moves in blurs to a triangle, to the centre of the back of the ute, my hair stuck to my cheeks, across my lips as it moves to its triangular point, skyline river gums closing in behind us, gravel stones smashing up against the diff, we are affected by the surface, by what we skim along, we're airborne, throwing up dust, beers are handed back from the driver, the rough ride and shouting giving us presence, the dogs put down their tongues and pant, tails steering their clumsy excitement, in motion from one side to the other, over the spare tyre and a greasy rope, holding fast to the paintwork, so as not to be left behind, which is important, as every property dog knows, when we go into town, to buy the newspaper and put on lotto, then if one should fall, well, i can't get a grip on any of them, in this way we are here to be ourselves, on the old green canvas and a backpack, in the back of the ute, bumping along the queensland border near collerina, we define boundaries by what we cross and choose to see, the bitumen or the tricky dust, an early star, a paper daisy, a gutted rusted holden bomb, fencelines and telstra wire, galahs lifting into the sky, 1000 galahs, now pink now grey, they are free to change direction, our winds from wing and tarp collide, we both lift up, combine and separate, moving ute and native birds, foraging for sustenance out back. |
