Only One comes across the eggs in the first dawn of The Great Daintree. There are seven of them, soft and rubbery. Swelling in the warm herbal mists of which they are surrounded, nestled half-buried in the warm and shallow humus. Noisy insects raw about her as her cries of joy become entangled within the canopy.
She sighs as a silvery streamlet runs into her ears, out through her nose and across her breasts. The Great Daintree is a lot larger than The Dwindling Forest. Nature is more relaxed as if the forest would go on forever, living out its cycles undisturbed and without fear.
She listens. The last soft currents of electrical air movement waver along the rocky streams at intervals, telling her that the nearest platypus colony has moved further into the forest somewhere, closer to its source.
She turns to the eggs. She is almost brown and insects are building nests in her hair. She nestles close to the eggs in the shade light. She feels the warm throb and tremble from inside, as the skin of her face brushes their skin sensitive exteriors.
She remembers the anti-life society and the words of Will Douglas. Here within the Great Forest her being is at last restful and protected. She falls into a light sleep of waiting.
