Country can offer up its secrets, he thought. If it chooses to. That place where I've felt the blood rush flowering into my loins and I knew that it had happened here. That place where I've felt dread in my bones, that sense of death, and I knew that it had happened there.
On his way to work, the day after the woman had told him the story of his friend's death, he rode his bike into the place. It was a lay-by for lovers and stoners; a quiet place away from the road. He laid his bicycle aside and stood in the clearing. He waited.
He waited for the bush to tell him what had happened there two days ago.
But it didn't. The birds and the scrubby trees and the soil went about their business of food/sex/death. Old acacias and weeds stood craggy and wooden in the morning heat. A breeze circled in the black dirt. A honey eater shrieked at a neighbour.
The bush was indifferent to what had happened here. It just didn't care.
He got back on his bicycle and rode to work.