Tirra worked her way slowly along the side of the hill - the bush was
open here with eucalypts and melaleucas growing out of the sandy soil on
the rocky slope. She paused now and then to stroke a trunk or feel a leaf and
clambered over rocky outcrops holding on to rocks and branches.
The ground was very dry - leaves, twigs and curls of bark crackled under
her feet. Although the day was hot, her skin was hardly damp, the air
was so dry.
She stopped and sat beside a gnarled old banksia - its black twisted
branches holding cones of seed pods stood starkly against the hot blue
sky. Opening her pack, she took out a bottle of water and drank deeply.
She made herself comfortable against the pack and leaned back looking at
the pattern of branches against the sky - the black cones of the banksia
and the delicate tracery of the grevillea.
Her eyes closed as her thoughts wandered through a world of vegetable
energy. She gratefully entered into the world of plants - a world that
she never left far behind. The air hung still with heat. Nothing
stirred. There was no movement, yet there was a hardly-perceptible shift
as the grasses and trees seemed to hold more firmly to the sandy soil,
their grip on life affirmed. Nothing stirred, yet there was a faint
quiver in the air itself.
For a moment, the enduring life of the sturdy plants and the slow
vibration of the rocks were attuned to the quick airy tune of the light
itself. All were aligned to one pulsing rhythm. The rhythm played
through the stillness for some minutes then quietly faded to softness
leaving a taste, a tinge of difference to endure in the air.
After a while, Tirra's eyes opened, she reached languidly for the bottle
and drank some more water. She picked up a fallen leaf, crushed it and
leaned to smell it. After a while, she stood up, stretched and continued
on her way.