Burn pile

Two burn piles turned into three when the old man Banksia caught an ember. The wood was so rotten and pulpy that it sucked in the fire like a chimney, flames licking at the bark. Owen cut it down with a chainsaw and I used the ute to drag it into a cleared area, away from the dead bracken.

Full moon and the inlet sounded 'slappy', he said. 'Soft, slappy waves.' No swell outside, just a light wind and gentle waves on the shore. Later I listened to songs being sung in the big house and read a poem about yards, feet, furlongs and rods; even township sizes are determined by how much work an ox can do in a day. I ate cheese beside a lantern from the good ship Cape Ottway and waited for the moonlight to blast the Marri trunk.

A mopoke cried moowook moowook in a tree to the west. Flew to a tree to the south of me and cried again. Then moowook moowook to the west, until that mopoke had circled my house with song.