These sounds charred like the native grasses that once hugged these sandy hills of Wiradjuri Country. The chalky noises that follows my steps as feet meet the dry sand. We walk a little further over the lumpy sand dunes and over some more. ![]() ‘Can’t catch me!’ they called, splashing among the water.Īs we reach the top of the dunes, sometimes it feels like I’ll catch a glimpse of their smiles and hear their laughter echoing like the calls of a morning kookaburra. I still hear the echoes of the children laughing and playing in the freshwater waiting for our uncles and aunties to catch our feed for the night. Three shadows stride past another undrinkable spring as memories flood my mind. I often think of how we got here, why our rivers and fresh springs are too poisonous to bathe in or drink now. My mother told me stories about the old ways, how the land used to be. The River Spirits may still be alive and watching over us, or perhaps Yuulangaa, the Rainbow Serpent, eager to carve our new rivers and streams. The rivers stained green lay sleeping for the next big rain as black crows fight over their sips. The dunes, our new pathways, leaving our footprints to be blown away by the northern winds. From horizon to horizon, the pale sky met the sea, and the sky met the mountains. Only skeleton branches and dry shrubs had survived after the Big Fire. ![]() Hours passed like days, time unknowable in this new world. I remember the millions of grains shifting under my feet as we make our way across the sand dunes. The sun burnt us beneath the eucalypt canopy.
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