I open the window to red earth Australia—Pilbara or Midwest Gascoyne—around sunset. We look east. A hazy sky, old waterways, ridge lines in the evening light glowing. A road, a homestead, a couple of salt-lake-looking formations. The eastern horizon is orange, yellow, green, blue. A seasonal riverbed. Another homestead. A minesite. River valley. Magenta then peach above on the horizon (darker red to apricot). Areas of saltlakes. Orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo sky. Lights at minesite; a single one elsewhere. Now the sky is orange, yellow, blue. More lights. More saltlakes. Hazy darkness. More lights. Sudden country and connection.
Category Archives: Bush Poetics
Full Bodied Butcherbird
Some mornings near Gerrungup in North Fremantle, or at Galbamaanup Lake Claremont, or up here on Bold Park I hear the grey butcherbird calling from some far-off, high, cymbolic starry place into this world, filling it with song. And on this day he’s really letting it rip through—full-throated, full-breasted, full-skied, song.
Whadjuk Views
I walk today up by Lesmurdie Falls, the Saturday morning clearsky winter sun coming up over the edge of the ridge as the water timbles down. I climb up and along the ridgeline of the scarp, heading north. And there, on the plan below lit up by the morning sun, all of Perth—all of Whadjuk Country—spread out below and beyond. From the line of the hills that extends all the way north—following it towards Moore River I fancy—with the coast up there and the suburbs reaching; then looking back down along those rooftops and the ocean beyond, towards the buildings of the city, and the river that runs from beyond the hills I stand on, and comes snaking slowly across it all, meeting there, by the city’s feet, the other river coming in from the south and east, the Doomben Helena in between, joining the Swan near Guildford—all the streams and wetlands and lakes, all that water underneath. Then the flow of things towards and from the port of Fremantle, all the green of Kings Park and Bold Park, and all that’s left in the suburban in-between—the industry of Kwinana, and Serpentine lakes and river wanderings beyond Rockingham towards Mandurah, and of course those islands—Meandip Garden almost touching the tip of Preston Point, making something like a bay, then noolyamia Carnac Island, rocks, Wadjemup Rottnest, and all the water in between. Whadjuk country. All the streams of it—seen and unseen—felt—revealing themselves when there are organs to see.
The Flameless Fire
Hike up into the hills around the Lower Helena Reservoir. The Doomben—’weired’ further up; diversion ‘dammed’ here. I take the higher trails up and up until I’m on mountain bike tracks. There is rain, and washouts have formed through the gravel and clayey mud; elsewhere there is granite and quartz in places. The rain has come after the dry summer; but not soon enough for many plants—and not just smaller bushes but also parrot bush, sheoaks, and even eucalypts—many dead. Some trees look like the red of autumn northern hemisphere; others grey and lifeless. It’s like a fire has gone through, without the blackened burn marks; but a similar effects remain—a swathe of dead bushes and trees, though not so cleared— some of the signs of fire without the flame: The flameless fire of the long dry summer. (And I can’t help wondering if the land needs some of them gone—if not by fire then by thirst.)
Rivers Becoming
I take a walk today out where one river becomes another, both ways. I start at the Derbarl Yerrigan Swan River side and walk upstream, levels still pretty low somewhere near mid-winter flow. I follow it up the bank, northern side, hopping a granite rock or two; 10-o’clock flowers coming out, moorhens, galahs, shelducks, black ducks, egrets, herons, fantails, balgaz, tuarts, melaleucas, zamias, casuarinas; kangaroos at Walyunga—where it turns into the Guggleyar Avon—water bubbling, guggle-yarrin. Then I turn back around, following the water as it flows.
Noticing also, on the valley walls—especially south side—the many dead trees. It looks like the red and orange of northern hemisphere fall…though without a springtime coming.
Gold in Eucalypts
Morning winter sun of Bold Park breaks through eastern clouds strong and golden, finding itself reflected in golden leaves of eucalyptus trees, especially the Tuarts. And I remember a study some years back that even showed how trees can pull up the gold in the ground and bring it into their leaves. Golden ground, golden sun, golden leaves.
Rearrival
Feeling is spreading in my chest,
Connection to rock, tree, beast, human being.
We can be experts beyond expertise;
You must love the overlie.
Arches
We drive the drives and walk some of the trails of Arches National Monument, Utah; the red-rock forms looking all watery—sculpted by water and wind—resembling the wet-sand castles you might make at a beach; many arch-like forms, the spaces beneath worn away. Close up, the sand is a fine, dusty red. In one spot—a kind of mini canoyn—we take our shoes off and feel it warm and soft between our toes, so dry. Later, we are staying in a hotel-motel in nearby Moab, the Colorado River flowing close by—a kind of marshy floodplain wetland to the west. And as soon as that sun sets, whole clouds of mosquitos come flooding in, ravenous—beings of too much life, too much wet…with the dry, side-by-side.
Massachusetts Connections
I take an afternoon walk north out of Cambridge in light rain. I see a bird on a fence—grey, black eyebrow, blue tail-feather part—bluejay? juvenile? I walk to a neighbourhood ballpark, under pines, and back. Later I have dinner outside with two old friends—they are tired from their program; we keep the wind at bay; there is no rain. And somewhere on this longer walk I feel a strong connection to all this Massachusetts.
Frogs
A morning walk with my wife and our old friend in western Massachusetts. We walk a piece of land around a big field and forest where he used to play as a kid—Jugend Loop. Meadows and woods and old apple orchard and stream—so green. Midgies, butterflies. And we have to be careful where we step on the path for there are so many frogs, most of which leap at the sound (or sight or…) of our approaching feet. (“Would you like some medicine power?” [‘The Story of Jumping Mouse’].)
John Stubley 