by ROHAN BUETTEL
In heavy fog we ride the northern border.
Man-sized shapes loom in the mist,
silent, still, until we close and they turn
and bound away. The fence on our left
marks the territory boundary, each barb
of the top strand has its own tiny web,
a necklace heavy with small translucent beads.
We ride south, sometimes raced
by wallabies or eastern greys. A mother,
with a little head poking from her belly,
slowly lopes apart from our path.
We stop, and I stare at the sun, a perfect circle
pale in the fog, and my finger tips are ice
cubes from the freezer tray. We follow
the ridge and trees emerge from the cloud.
A flock of cockatoos erupt from a gum,
startled by our fast approach. It could
almost be Europe, riding in this mist,
but for the vegetation, and the wildlife
escorting us on our way.