Monday, November 6, 2017

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.