The red earth is a burned scar, scorched blisters

beneath the unrelenting sun.

Small black dots hover and hum

in the midday shimmer.

Dust dry air catches and claws,

rasping across the desiccated desert.

A shrill cry echoes and lingers across the flat horizon:


A whisper extending across the land:

Garrall, garrall, garrall

It returns.

The rains will come.

Yoongaba garrall budan

Sing black cockatoo bird

Sing the song

of rain

of family

of belonging

of dreaming

of Country.