246. At the Harbor

We lie on our backs on the grass,
which is actually just clover
kept short and soft to the touch.
The palm tree arches over us,
protecting us from the sun
that reflects off the harbor
just beyond the sand
we can see through our toes.

Time must still pass here,
but it doesn't have an even flow,
the seconds counting up
with each rattle of the palm fronds.

245. Full Moonlight

Amongst the white stars,
the moon is a single spotlight
pointed at this scene.

240. Guiding Flares

The sun sets in front of us
as we ride down the two lane highway,
the sky turning dusty pink and purple
with a small strip of yellow in between.

As we round a bend,
in the landscape so similar at each turn,
the twin lights appear on the right side,
still distant but near enough to know
we're more than halfway home.

214. A Hint of Rain Clouds

The air grows heavy, an almost damp weight
pulling me down, making me desperate,
homesick,
for a little bit of rain from the thick clouds.
They put a lid on the usually barren skyscape,
adding a measurable distance of air
from me to the gray whisps
that always make me feel grounded,
too small for such a big space.
But I never notice the gap
until the clouds close over my head,
trapping me.

207. Smokescreen

The sky's shrouded like someone's pulled gray tulle over it all,
and the edges blur into the horizon, a haze I first think is fog,
but then I realize it can only be smoke from a nearby bush fire
left to burn itself out when the dry land is not enough for it either.

198. White Hot Sand

The hot sand nips at my toes and heels,
burns up through the soles of my feet,
makes me remember the time as a child
the pavement turned my soles to blisters,
large, bulbous, and so overwhelmingly painful
that my body still remembers the unceasing agony
a dozen years later when the sand heats my feet.

194. The Dust Storm

In the morning, the light spreads
diffused behind what seems like fog
but it's actually dust, earth in the air
blurring the outline of the town
and hiding the distant hills.

In the evening, the sun reappears
as a red outline, sharp and oversized
behind the desert sand in the sky.

185. Under the Coral Sun

Six months had passed
since I last tread this path in the daylight,
the time when the shadows stretch long
and everything takes on a coral tone
that makes me hair look auburn, rosy.

The birds gather the same way
they did in the darkness just before dawn,
their small white bodies settled in the dirt
but tense, wary of my presence.

The path is more vibrant,
the water shines brighter
and I can better see the crab
scurrying around the small rocks.

My feet know this path,
but there is enough newness
to carry me forward
until the year cycles around
and I trod in the darkness
once more.

155. Staircase to the Moon

We wait anxiously, restless among the broken
shells that make up a large swath of the beach,
ready to watch the full moon glow red-orange
and peak over the horizon of the water at low
tide. The light will reflect off the bay, broken
where the mudflats intercept the moonbeam.

To our left, the flare from the natural gas plant
burns brighter in the dark before the moon rises.
To our right lay the bright lights for the choir
and the sound systems that feeds a steady stream
of natural wave sounds as if we'd forget
that the waterline is too far out to hear it.
Behind us, headlights and flashlights streak
across the path, through our vision, and people
chatter restlessly for the natural scene to begin.

Once the moon does rise, a spry red presence
in the Eastern sky, the voices halt for a moment
before the flashes start going, failing to capture
the play of darkness and light across the bay.

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.

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.

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.

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."

The X's in the Dirts

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

Pilbara Creeks

When we drive on the highway,
the signs spell out the creek names
as we pass over or through dry
dirt paths or on the rare occasion,
a creek bed that still has a puddle.
But they all have names, long
often complex names for the waterway
that only flows after heavy rains,
and I wonder when these creeks
last ran. Does anyone make sure
that they run at least once a year
or could they be entirely dried up
and everyone assumes they must run
at another time of the year, a time
that's not now?