When the men arrived
at night in the empty camp ground,
shone their headlights through my windscreen
and parked front on as if to get out the jump leads,
I became the crocodile in the swamp behind the tailgate,
checked my heart rate, stilled my pulse
and slowly sunk, reciting the long story of the day
like a road or a river out.
Down and the old house smell of the vine forest.
Bat shriek and startling the dingoes
who bounded away leaving the wallaby
fat and open like a purse.
When the motor died, I sank lower,
stopped up my ears with mud.
Midday, walking alone in the stone country
where no one is ever alone
heat opens the rocks like seedpods, scattering questions.
It's not my place so who do I call?
Why do I go so far from my house to bring something back
and what do I learn here, counting the six long fingers
of Algaihgo the Firewoman who waits on the rock wall
or watching the lines on the Lightning Man's circuit
until he starts flashing, banging the stone axes at his joints,
frightening an open car door closed?
The lights veered off, searching for someone else
or another time.
I surfaced to rain as if to an answer,
lost my armour, became pale and long toed
like Jacana the water bird
who steps lightly across the floating leaves.