by ROSS JACKSON
before dwellings begin swelling across the plain
of hot, grey sand
crows, magpies, goannas, galahs
hopping on and off roadways scant of traffic
they’re on a mostly fruitless mission
since not much nutrition
in thatches of yellow grass
some way off, still back of mind
high ranges of glittering glass
where the summer city
crowds around a river beating unruffled blue
not the right place, for those for whom
a servo, an IGA, a sports ground
and a tavern will do