153. Growing Pains

My fingers make the pen dance across the page,
sharp loops of script or the bold lines of my font
as I write a short reminder, a postcard, a to-do list,
my movements precise as each line hits the mark,
strings together the thoughts and sentences.

Too soon, the movements falter, a stumble
in the rhythm as the familiar ache returns
to the inside of my wrist, the tender burning
in the back of hand, the sharp burn in the elbow.
Each movement becomes a labor, a concerted
effort to keep the movement going, to press on
until the whole idea has filled the space,

because what is a writer that cannot use a pen.

152. Petrichor

Some mornings, the thin cotton sheets

are heavy with humidity, the fabric pills

leaving invisible scratches on my thighs

as I struggle to find the elusive comfort

of a few more minutes burrowed in bed.

Instead, I dream of rain on the metal roof,

lightning streaking through the open land,

illuminating the distant hills for just a moment,

the rumbling drawl of thunder overhead,

making us feel alive, connected, and small.

But when I give up, drag myself out of bed,

rubbing my thighs, a half-remembered itch,

the sky is dark with the pre-dawn light

but no clouds break up the flawless sky:

just another humid day in the coastal desert.

151. Not Just Another Rock

Movement in the water makes me stop
on the dirt slope as I discern a shelled
animal moving around the shallows
a short distance from my steel-toed boots.

I think it's a turtle at first, a small snapping
turtle or the eastern box turtles I used to see
at home in the ponds where they swam
but too often couldn't manage to climb out.

But it's a crab scurrying through the water
with no direction or purpose, just ambling
backwards and sideways across the dirt
until it seems to notice me, my shadow,
perhaps, and it rushes off to pretend
it's just another rock in the bottom of a basin
with too few rocks to aid the fearful crab.

150. Capturing the Outback

There were times in those first days, weeks,

when I would sit outside in the wobbly chair

or amongst the dust on the concrete sidewalk

and stare at the horizon, the spacious red dirt

and brush landscape spanning all four directions,

the broad expanse of the sky, ever cloudless

even on the mornings that felt like rain.

The air only held birds I’d never seen before,

zephyrs that felt strange against my skin,

and the sharp captivating reminder

that I’m actually in Australia; it lured me

outside for every moment I could spare.

I used to stare at the sky, tracing constellations

I couldn’t name, searching for shooting stars

or satellites in the edge of the Milky Way,

staring at the way the crescent moon hung

at a different angle from the one at home.

I photographed everything that could fit

into a frame and even more blurred attempts

to capture a feeling, a place that could never

be translated into words or tamed fit in a 3x5

photograph, or whatever that is in centimeters.

And I don’t want to have to say there were times.

On the Lines

On the power lines running alongside the neighborhood streets,
the cockatoos gather and perch on the line around a single post,
leaving the rest of the wire unadorned with their white bodies.

Sewing Buttons

The wind blows steadily through my hair
and plays with the edge of my skirt as I sit
on the patio and struggle to fit the navy thread
through the small eye of the needle, taking care
not to let the ends tangle or the button blow away
before I can fit it back into the proper place
on this third pair of pants needing mending.

Tension

I step inside the rusty shipping container,
alert for the whip snake last spotted
yesterday somewhere near this location.
I take stock of the spiders on the walls
and on the equipment I'm trying to collect,
the egg sacks scattered across the metal,
webs stringing together every surface,
but the spiders don't look dangerous.
I stay cautious as I inspect the object
and start scaring the spiders into the corners,
diligently checking each surface and hole
before I risk touching it with gloved hands.

A flash of white catches my attention
and my startled sound echoes a little
as I take quick steps toward the door.
My embarrassment heightens as I slow
and realize its just a small lizard's body
turned with its pale belly toward me.
With a shake of my head, I turn back
to the task, feeling silly and anxious.

The Joey in the Road

The wind shield streaked with red dust
and evening dew, we spot the small form
of a joey on the side of the dirt road,
its body white in the arc of the headlights.
For a moment, I think it's going to stay
in place even though we slow to a stop,
but then it turns, looking into the lights
and taking a hesitant hop into the road.
It stops again just watching, waiting
for something that we can't determine.
Another moment passes before it hops
across the road, over the line of bushes
at the edge, away, into the darkness.

Coincidences

Three of my packages arrive on the same day,
one of them ordered more than a month ago,
and I sift through the post marks in delight--
Hong Kong, India, and then, surprisingly,
a small city only a forty-five minute drive
from my hometown. I smile and tell everyone,
because I hadn't known before I placed the order.

Unfortunate Reminders

It's terribly wrong
that a site about burnout
makes me check email.

Night Driving

Turning from the main road to the dirt track,
I think the rearview mirror has dropped
to a useless angle again because everything
is dark, but I soon realize there are no lights
behind me anymore. My brights illuminate
a small section of the red grated road
but I hope the station wagon's rattling
is as loud on the outside as it is to me,
so the kangaroos dare not jump over
the single row of lighted shrubbery
lining the pathway to test the bull bar.
After a few turns, the town settles
into my rearview, a line of lights
across the horizon, but the road
in front is no brighter for of it.

Late Winter

Even in winter,
the sun's heat brushes my skin:
seventy degrees.

Sunday Night at the Mermaid

Sharp crack of the balls
on the green felt colliding,
sometimes dropping down.

The Spider

The spider appeared on my ceiling one night,
its long legs pressed into a straight line
as it waited completely still for a better time
to trap the insects that gather above the lamp.
For the rest of the evening, I steal quick glances
at it, wondering if I should catch it and release
it back outside where I won't have to fret
or should I leave it alone, out of my reach,
to keep the short-lived insects off my desk
where the ants come to carry off the corpses.

The Predacious Butcherbird

I see the butcherbird before I cross the fence.
It's flighty, like it cannot decide whether to flee
or if the safe spot on the roof can still protect
it and the bit of something clenched in its beak.
I think it's a corn cob, at first, lined with divets
where kernels grew before they were lost,
but no corn grows in northwestern Australia.
I step closer, still carrying my bucket of supplies,
and the bird hops further away, ramming its beak
into the rubber tire on the roof in a way that assures
me it holds food and I probably don't want to see
what a butcherbird holds dear and splatters on rubber.
Curiosity wins out and I look again, hoping its
not another fledgling lost to the large, predacious bird.
This time I see honey comb in the patterned object,
but that cannot be true either, because this bird
wouldn't eat such a thing even if it was built here.
I move on with my task, giving up on identifying
the object. A few minutes later, though, I glance
up again and the abstract object suddenly snaps
into shape like an automatic focus on a camera.
I grimace, look away, and curl in on myself a little
can see the scales, the patterns, the front legs
of half of a lizard hanging out of that ominous beak.

In the Plumbing

The bathroom floor slopes

to a metal drain; two thin

antennae peek out.

Morning Mists

The fog lays heavy and white over the land
for the first four hours after the sun has risen,
slowly creeping up like the curtain of a stage
to leave water droplets and small puddles
in the red dirt without the Pilbara sunshine.
The moisture clings to the spider web lines
illuminating the invisible strands with white,
making them seem thicker, almost iridescent,
under the shadows of the morning clouds.

In the Fog

The morning sky is dark and heavy
with dark clouds that hang low
even as the sky slowly lightens
from black to navy to deep blue.
In the midst, the jabiru appears
on the dirt path between two basins,
lifting one leg at a time to cross
to the center. From my location,
its black and white feathers blend
together into a sharp silhouette
against the fog as it ambles,
unhurried and focused on its goal
somewhere inside the gray.

Afternoon at the Cove

We know it's low tide before we arrive,
but it's still a surprise to see the waterline
on the other side of a field of wet sand.
We hesitate, knowing we can't swim
in water so shallow but tempted to wade
up to our knees in the clear blue water,
so we kick off our sandals and cross over
the broken shells of the beach to feel
the sand sink and squelch between our toes
as we seek out the water and something
to break up the monotony of our days.

Remembering Fear

In the dark, I walk along the pavers,
my bare feet seeking the smoother ones
as I weave a path onto the dirt lawn
and then up the slope of the sidewalk.
I hurry forward, feeling tense, anxious.
and silly that the stories about snakes
we shared last night have reminded me
I should be afraid of things I can't see.

Inside, I buffer myself with flip-flops
too flimsy to provide any protection
from anything except my own fears.

Insect Graveyard

Mosquito-like bugs
wander my ceiling, seeking
the desk where they die.

Steel-Toed Life

I hardly pay attention, half asleep in the mornings,

when I pull on my steel-toed boots and tie the laces.

The inner soles have long since molded to my feet

and months have passed since I last paid attention

to the extra weight wrought with each step forward.

Instead, I notice the tightness in my outer ankles

and my calves when I later move certain directions,

the beveled touch of the sidewalk under my soles,

and the extra flexibility in my ankles when I wear

my well-worn pair of sneakers that now feel foreign.

The Cockatoo Circle

Midmorning, the cockatoos take flight,
settling in the top of the palm trees,
on the sloped, corrugated metal roofs,
on the top of posts and satellite dishes,
and in the weak imitation of grass
growing in the red dirt around the site.

Then they begin to squawk and chirp
and whistle, only ever one or two birds
at a time, the sound going around in rings,
like The Wave inside a sports stadium,
each burd responding to the previous
and I stand in the center to listen.

Following the Leader

Outside, the pelicans circle in the air,
like toy planes strung from the ceiling.
They each follow a bright white body
with a shock of deep black feathers
on the trailing side of theirs wings
as they form a continuous ring in the sky,
finishing seven laps before one breaks
out of the cycle and the others follow,
seeming not to notice their new path.

Diagnosing Sleepiness

Busy days at work
with dinner at 9 PM
may cause drooping eyes.

Grass in Karratha

In this town where the limited water
supply confines the residential sprawl,
grass is an extravagance and a waste.
Sprinklers run on timers in some yards,
but the soft spray sound is uncommon.
We pull or trim weeds and tall grasses
as soon as the rains end for the year,
because they'll lose their green hue
for a rattling golden-brown tinge,
and the grasses hide snakes, rats,
spiders, and other deadly creatures.

After the fair, I ask him if he enjoyed it--
the large roaring rides, the food stands,
the small art collection, the people--
and he says, "I liked sitting in the grass."

Clouds of Smoke

We can see the wisps of gray matter
forming just behind the mountain,
a telltale sign of a large bush fire
somewhere to the south of us.
The smoke stretches to the sides,
leaves small gaps of blue sky
between the lines and the smoke
continues to build all day long.

As the sun sets, the cloud turns
purple in the darkening sky
and I know that come morning
the streaks of smoke will be bigger
because bush fires run wild here,
run until they put themselves out.

The X's in the Dirts

The ant line is gone
from the crest of the red dirt;
bird feet beat it flat.

The Bird with a Useless Foot

At lunch, a yellow miner bird

with a twisted and useless

right foot used to hang on limbs,

waiting for scraps of food to drop

to the stone pavers or seeking

a chance to dart in and steal

from an unguarded plate.

But it hadn't been around for weeks,

and the cats had taken up residence

next to the table so they could steal

the spare bits of food from pity,

untidiness, and boredom.

I feared for the mangled little bird

that has to take bigger risks

than the other birds to find food,

so I began to check every bird

that approached the patio to find it

until I saw one fluffy yellow bird

with its foot curled under its body.

I waited to see if it would fix

the problem, but it simply hopped

on one foot to a bit of bread.

Seeking Kangaroos

Post-dawn, I look out at the field of grass and shrubs,
ominous in a place with so many deadly creatures.
Weeks have passed since I've seen a kangaroo,
other than the one tipped on its side at the edge
of the main road, its leg stiff in the air and bent sharply
at an angle too awkward to have been usable anyway,
but this is the perfect time to spot one hopping
in the trace of light before the heat burns down.

For a moment, I think I've spotted one, but I decide
it's a rock and the pink sky has changed the coloring,
because I wouldn't spot a kangaroo on my first try
when I'm only looking because I'm a passenger.
Yet, the reddish lump moves, growing a bit taller
and I can make out the curve of an ear on a head
that has appeared from behind the rest of the body.

The kangaroo doesn't move as we drive past
and the sun continues to slide into the sky.

The Clicking Claws

When I first hear the small scratching
on the outside of my room, I think
there's a mouse inside the air conditioner,
or maybe just on top of the large unit.

The sound doesn't stop and I don't want
a mouse in the wall above my head
when the slats are large enough to escape
and they've grown stiff with disuse.

I step outside and circle the building
to stare at the unit for signs of life,
but only the butcherbird sits on the roof
watching me with unwavering intensity.

Then it moves, its claws scratching
along the metal ridges in the roof,
mimicking the noise of tiny rodent claws,
just above my room and its thin walls.

Later, as I lie on my bed, the door open
to a surprisingly warm and sunny
winter day, I notice a similar scratching
and look up to find the butcherbird
standing in the doorway, still steadfast
in its curiosity and silent fearlessness.