We had travelled over 1,200 kms from
Kangaroo road-kill adorns the highway where it crosses the Nullabor Plains, and the eagles and ravens quarrel as they consume the carcasses – and yes, they are ravens, and not crows.
I love this land – so spare, so harsh, so stark in its colours, so wide in its sky. It is part of me, though I live my life elsewhere.
Spinifex makes circles on the ground, trees die in fires and sprout again at the base – battlers in a land so disadvantaged that, elsewhere on earth, nothing more than grass would grow under such conditions.
It rains as we travel, and the earth drinks – and survives another day.
Cocklebiddy greets us with a wind that wars with us as we try to erect the tent, and promises to pound the canvas all night long. Sunset lours at us in angry greys and everchanging red. Supper is steak and bread and tomatoes and a glass of red wine. When stars peep through the cloud, they are truly diamond-like in their brilliance. Not town stars any more, but desert stars aglitter.
The wind gusts, the tent flaps, but I sleep.