On a windless, clouded afternoon at the end of May,
I go for another bushwalk.
I’m greeted at the start of my walk by one of my favourite native birds,
Its laughter echoes through the scrub for the first ten minutes of my walk.
Then comes magpie song:
A kangaroo regards me intently from afar.
The only bush in flower is one whose name I don’t know.
Its flowers grow in tiny, white clusters and smell sweet and rich, like honey.
It’s quiet in the bush,
and I, too, am quietly gladdened for my time there.