Hands spin the map
to turn the ridge north. An identical
twin of the last tangled north
running ridge. It is like
a fog; no sun, no break
in trees, no view, I climb a fig. It is
one o’clock, five hours dropping
into gorges, lantana climb
and lawyer vine across the top, five hours
since I saw that one burnt tree.
‘Coo-eee’ A human voice
Must be another local
with the same idea
to scratch around
for an airplane. Better not
respond, confuse the poor
cocky. He is two tangled
north running ridges to the west.
Where I’m going anyway. Company
will be nice.