Barbara A. Taylor

As If It Does So Just For Me

stranded–
the morning star
in a puddle

A puncture in the wee hours of the morning when driving back from a party—loud flapping breaks the silence—a barn owl swoops and the sulphur-crested cockatoos take off in the soft blue calm of the dawn. The spare is flat! I lock my car and walk ... There’s a great peace in these honeysuckle-scented lanes. My only route is a three-hour trek; limping up hill, down hill, on uphill, winding toward my mountain cabin; past perfumed acres of pawlonia and the macadamia orchards drenched with nuts. Brash mauves and violets of escaped bauhinia blaze in the bush. Wallabies crisscross the gravel road, scaring a frill-necked lizard into its frozen stance, head stiff to the sky.

listening
I tell myself
yes I can

I see things I’ve never noticed before when driving this same journey: hidden driveways to concealed houses of invisible people, neighbours keeping away, closeted by high lantana hedges; prancing, scuttling calves, calling forlornly for their mothers, thud down gradient pastures. I meet no human on this journey. Today awakens as if it does so just for me. Lush paddocks brim with birdsong. With every step there’s something new to touch or smell or see. It’s a challenge this climb for these old injured legs and feeble feet, but home I go, returning to an avenue of welcoming scarlet hippieastrum, to find a possum on my doorstep, waiting, open-eyed, next to a large brown egg, laid graciously by one of my Chinese silkies; a perfect way to start the day.

at breakfast
bouncing shadows
across the lawn