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,
the kookaburra:
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.
twenty-one words 