Rungutjirpa

Glen Hunting

Evening, and the cleft  
in the range draws air 
from russet plains, 
to comb the walls, ruffle 
the water beneath them. 

Soon, the breeze abates  
as weary sunlight  
gilds the ridgetops. 
Crow call can’t divide 
the starkness from stillness.    

Ripples recede  
into tiny slaps that leave 
no visible traces. 
Anything under the surface  
is hidden in tannin. 

This Country 
embodies its mystery,  
as though its murmurs 
aren’t my stories to learn 
or songs to hear.  

What can I hope  
to embrace here, as I wait 
for the spirits to speak?    
What permission have I 
to know them at all? 

I’ve little to offer 
but callow respect. 
I’ve only begun to learn  
to lower my guard 
and not feel adrift.