I was out in the paddock one day at my home place Booroola, in Central Western NSW. I was wondering, ‘what is it about this place’. I’m standing beneath a big old eucalyptus looking towards the creek in the afternoon light. The bark on the trees lining the creek glows pink in the distance and I see myself reflected as the pinkness.
There is a dawning realisation;
I am the creek, I am the rise out of the creek and the creeks curve. I’ve been walking for days, feeling the land, absorbing impressions;
I am the sound of Galahs. The chattering, screeching and bell like song is me.
I am the curve of the creek. Lined with Box trees and River-gums some gnarled and twisted, some broken and opened.
I’m the white trunks that glow pink in the afternoon sun.
I’m the deep green of the Box trees against the grey of the dead grass butts.
I’m the sway of the Wilgas, and the sound of breeze through the Belah trees.
I’m the Rosewoods happy with ants climbing across me and the ark, ark ark of the Crows is also me.
I’m the clear call of the Currawongs.
I’m the delicate foot prints in the creek sand and the birds who made them.
I’m the fox, a foreign interloper, hunted and hated for the lambs I take.
I’m the Silver Eyes who protest as I disappear into a tree in the form of a tabby cat.
I’m the earth, the red sandy soils that pile up against the fences as I blow with the wind.
I’m the grey clays, and the up and down of the Gilgai’s where in wetter times, the swirls of water enter the underworlds which are also me.
I’m the sand in the creek and the silt in the bottom of the tanks.
I’m the sharpness of the catheads, and the prickliness of clover burr.
I’m the gentle undulations between the creek and the plain.
And I’m the girl, walking in the creek, wanting to understand, wanting to understand the land. What does it need, why is it dry, what is happening here to this place, to my place, to me?
