The coming down of the Magela
after the first storms,
we chased that front of water all day.
It surged slowly,
calm in the surety of its fulfillment
trickling unevenly into dry spaces
filling hollows, spilling, collecting
pushing the debris of the Dry before it.
The hot sand gasped,
giggles of bubbles escaped
as the water soaked deeper.

Beetles dragged their sodden carapaces
onto the island havens of your legs
the swirling froth tickled your skin
you laughed and rolled in the rolling flood.
The swell of water
gouged the sand from under your hips
rolled you roughly along
dragging you underneath the paperbarks
the luscious wet warmth
tangle of sand and water and your hair
your grazed knees.

In the stone country
a taut pod explodes, kapok floats
king fisher dips into dark pool
the coconut smell of rock fig
Yamitj calls out from the escarpment
yams grow
the waterfall drops, stops, falls again
Black Walleroo leaps the gap.

Laughing
sucking mango juice
the smell of pandanus fruit
the gurgling cackle of a Koel
pursued by her male
golden-eyed frogs on lily leaves

flying foxes vibrate
then fold their silky wings.

A thousand whistle ducks lift and turn.
If you were here I’d make love to you.