It’s been raining for a day and a half now: long, soft, soaking showers falling through the still, breathing bush. Drops of rain sound in a hundred ways: on the perspex, corrugated iron and metal gutters of the hut; on wet soil, leaf litter, puddles, living branch, log. My ears are drinking. Outside the shelter a thick white sky. The light is cool and bright and all seems illuminated without casting a shadow. My eyes roam around the green cloak of the treetops and the vertical greys and browns and blacks of the trunks – a patch of copper leaves, bright red growth on a stubby young Eucalypt, a yellow-cream flower stalk – the only colours that break this gentle monotony. It’s chilly and my feet in their dirty blue thongs are itchy and a bit cold; I’d happily put on more layers but the rest of my walker’s ascetic wardrobe is sweat-damp and smelly. It hasn’t quite come to that yet! With my belly full of tea, my dirty fingernails, my chilly feet and a whole afternoon of writing and reading before me, I feel as rich, heavy and content as the soaking forest floor. Receptive ground.
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