The gentle hills north of Taralga
unfold as though
everything were possible. Trees
grow. Their crowns shift in the small wind
showing off new leaf tips: pink, green, a hint
of blue. The cows in the paddocks are big
and brown. They browse and stare
into space. One lays her head on her friend’s
shoulder. Their calves lollop around
Five ducks are standing
on a narrow strip of concrete
designed to ease boats into the water.
They have their backs to me;
even so, at the sound of my steps,
they slide into the lake.
A moorhen rises up and
onto the concrete.
She raises the dark wedge of her tail
and shits a neat soft gleaming pile
then steps towards me