The animus of dead timber getters reflects in the eyes
of raptors from the phantom limbs of Tinaroo. Down where
Old Boar Pocket Road becomes a boat-ramp, a triptych of
Bush Stone Curlews, frozen in grotesque poses, arose as I
approached and floated above the lake with eerie screams.
Can’t decide if I want to drown myself with whiskey or
jump from a bridge. I tiptoe like those curious birds along
the fence; below the calm the town of Kulara, overwhelmed
in nineteen fifty three, also some heavy machinery the legend
says, though no maps exist, and the locals don’t know much.
I asked an old man in a canoe if he knew where Kulara
slept, if he could point me in the right direction, but he said
he’d never heard of it, but reckoned there are dark shapes
beneath the water, toward the falls, and pointed beyond a
thicket of dead trees full of hawks; and off he went, the
water performing somersaults, behind him as he rowed.
© Brentley 2011