My ancestors were born in this dusty horse town, yet it is foreign to me.
Straw, manure, and all those trees — eucalyptus mingled with wattle. Sparrows congregate on the dry grass in the early summer morning, discussing current events before the heat drives them off to wherever they go. Where do they go? My people went to the city.
Country women and Devonshire tea. Towering magnolias and sweet cherry blossoms. Farmers in their hats. Victorian railway station built from sandstone. And all those mice — a plague. I trap one, but I don’t want to kill him. Can I just set him free? I am not from here. My people no longer work on the land.
Dusty towns that people escape to. Or from.
Not my home but I —
wish it were, don’t you? I long —
for those dusty towns.
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