Arriving in a New Country Town
On the way, in kangaroos filled roadsides,
spurred on by headlights and food scraps
at truck stops. Late sun caught
the red buds of eucalypts, the white
of bald-head boulders. Now, dark comes
on fast in the chimney-smoke town.
It’s a different cold here, after winter
in China, where wind cut through
whatever you wore, and moisture clung
to you like a relative at a funeral.
Here the cold slides over you
like a sexy massage girl. The skyline
is a gold rush, clouds flick like stockyard whips,
while on the ground the only sound
is a dog’s half-hearted bark,
the chatter of parrots, shifting leaves
in patterns people can't make.