My American relatives are here.
They drive behind us 
on the freeway towards 
Wardandi Country—Dunsborough.
Thursday evening mid March
and it’s raining.

The sky is grey in places,
clear in others.
The sun bursts through
and a rainbow lights up
to the east—low, clear—
a second one on its shoulder.

There are boodalung pelicans up there,
there are waalitch eagles,
there are kestrels.
We cross bridges 
across waterways
as the rain comes and goes.
We cross countries.

The sun goes behind clouds,
then bursts out again,
and the eucalypts glow
a shimmering gold.

The place is alive.
The world is alive.
Everything seen
and waiting to be seen.

We listen to Australian music
and look out on Australian Country.
There is no separation.
I am out there with it,
in the rain, in the rainbow,
in the birds
and roads 
and creek crossings.
In the rivers
and trees and sunlight 
leaves. 
In the music of it.
And I am grateful.

Behind us—my American relatives,
with their own connections to this place.