Phoenix

It was finally felled by great gusts,
Gutted, it had no bones for its iron skin.
So it fell.
Mostly.
The large timber posts held.
Half the gabled roof hangs.
With each new blast of wind, the loosened iron sheets,
"Clatter and clang, clatter and clang."

We are here today, along with the wind,
To salvage the best it can offer.
We collect and sort the iron,
That has flown to all corners of the paddock.
The playful wind tugs it from our grasp.
Continuing its game.

Then the fallen rafters and batons are liberated.
But we trip over haphazard debris.
And the uncovered rabbit warrens.
Having the last laugh,
The wind whips our hair into our eyes.

But we are not deterred.
In our mind's eye, the shed,
That will rise again in a new location,
On our farm.

Invigoration

What is it about the combination of wind, rain and outdoor activity,
That causes such invigoration of the soul?
I was very tired,
Up far too late last night.
Yet,
Being out in the paddock,
Moving soggy goats and their shelter.
Pulling down electric fences,
And tramping through the paddocks,
Just made me feel alive.
My nose was runny and wet cool hairs streaked across my face.
My clunking gumboots even had a leak and a stone.
Yet,
I had a smile in my heart.

Wind on the Monaro

The tussocks roll,
Like an invisible hand stroking the soft fur of a puppy,
Or choppy waves on a bay.
It is soothing to watch.
It caresses my eyes.
I can observe insulated in the sanctuary of my warm vehicle.
The stands of trees I pass are another matter,
Ferocious in their calisthenics.
They bend, whip and quake alarmingly.
I prefer to watch the grass.
Then I come upon a gang of White Winged Choughs.
They are on the road, sheltering in a cutting.
As I approach they simultaneously rise in the air.
The blast they meet, causes them to rise slowly,
And make a gentle backwards arc.
Flashes of white break up the black.
They arch their backs unnaturally,
back paddling into the sky.