Sitting looking at a wool shed. From the shearing qUrters. Music. Cold beer. Where am I most at peace? I know the answer. I’m here. In it. Colours are more spectacular than a New Jersey turnpike at peak hour. The energy is something else. Years ago shearer’s sat here watching the drovers move there. A roast in the camp oven. Will it works? Who cares. I don’t do any painful thinking out here. I just exist. It’s that silence. That moment of going slow. I have to tell myself to go slow. Cutting wood today to make the fire to cook the snags that I could have easily cooked on a pan. No. I want to force myself to slow down. The Paroo. Not what I expected. Wilcannia. Haunting. Cobar. Old and grand. Nyngan. Respirator needed. Give me this sheep country. Any day. Grey skies. Twelve mill at the front gate. Ten here at the shearer’s quarters. Red dirt. Water moves. Feed grows. When the country is going good the nation is going good
