derbarl yerrigan banks; mud marsh maali.  

Lapping currents wash the sand brown. The surfaces reflect the fading sunset. A playground near a man-made lake, skirted by sculptures of yakan. Gum trees slowly wave in the warm winds. 

I feel as though I have no body; floating eyes fully encapsulated by my surroundings. The roots of the trees my blood vessels, deep in the soil of my flesh. Gliding through the dusk-shadowed park, I am comforted by the steps of family beside me. 

We venture out together from the concrete path, past the yacht club, to where the roads meet the sand. A big pineapple palm stands out against its backdrop of kwel, tipping against the tide as the bank erodes. I would dance around under its outstretched fans, sing songs while the waves around my ankles keep time. Its rhythm my beating heart, its liquid my blood. 

From the dark a fisherman mutters; words sharp like the knife he threatens to pull. My dad tugs on the dog leash. We leave. 

It took me years to find that exact bank again.