UHF

The road to my work-place is special.
Especially corrugated, narrow and winding.
Through cool mountain forests,
Home to the fleet-footed,
And sometimes,
Not fleet-footed enough.
Wallaby, wombat, lyrebird and kangaroo.
Flashes of fur and feather.
And of twenty five tonnes of log truck.
With accompanying dust.

So the ritual calls commence.
"Gap Road,  Bendoc to Jughandle,
Mustards to Delegate River,
Playgrounds to Burtons rd.
Legge Rd, heading down the Brown."

And the replies.
"Yeh you should be seeing my dust soon."
Or...
"Watch out! I'll be coming up in a minute."

And then the trucks to each other.
"Yeh Mack, a little one coming up next."

I sneak up on them and eaves drop on their conversations.
" Yeh she was a wild night at the club..."
" Now what's this Dick- head doin?
F'kn tourists."

As we' pass the time of day on channel forty,
I feel a sense of solidarity,
Of one who is a local,
In the know.
In their club.