Muyan (silver wattle) streams through the window, itches my nose
                                                                     there have been few words this month 
and no wanderings beyond the house.
                                                                     No, 
                                                                                there have been travels with clay and 
small trips to the backyard. 
                                                            There was the day I sat in the grass out the back here, felt 
the sun-yellow-fire bite my skin.  
                                                            There was the day I watched flies, noticed how it was to 
watch them, and how to watch them was to love them.  And how in loving them I could
                                                                                                                         slide

                                                                                                            into their iridescence –

                                                                                              green and blue

                                                                                  with flashes of red.
There was another day, a day of so many flies,  not buzzing ones,  small ones, delicate
wings.  Such delicate wings and the tiniest of feet like miniature sticks            or

                                                                                                                                           stiff

                                                                                                                                           threads 
that could climb on a single blade of grass without too much effect.
                                             There was the day a moth interrupted      my mind wanderings 
of sunset, flying me off toward the light of Arcturus.
                                                                                Yes, there were these days
but mostly I was forced back

                                  into my bones,

                              my organs,

                          my flesh,

                      forced back to float through stories

shared only with my bed.



Use of the Woi Wurrung word muyan was endorsed by the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung Cultural Heritage Aboriginal Corporation.

Muyan translated into English is silver wattle.