Our hands
tell our stories
I thought
as I watched him steer
the old paddle wheeler
down the Thomson River
in a stretch of water
the locals said
had never run dry
even though
beyond the coolibahs
dry and dusty
treeless flats
stretched
to the horizon
sneezing dust
into the hazy twilight
as lumbering trucks
raced the night
and kangaroos
frozen
by the blinding lights
fell
to a foisted fate
by the roadside -
fodder not only
for the carrion hunters
I thought
but for the tellers
of tales
back at home
and on the road
around billabong campfires
as billies boiled
and yarns gave way
to legends -
the stars
I thought
that night
trying to find them
behind the dusky
pink haze
have been
telling us stories too
since the beginning
of time
about this planet -
now I thought
still trying
to find one
is the time
to listen.
