Last year Aboriginals took me to find a boomerang. Eventually, after hundreds of rejected trees, one was found buried deep within the correct bend in a mulga. Tiny tomahawk in hand the old man, of indeterminate age, bought the boomerang from out of the wood. Eventually the essence of that perfect angle at the base of the tree was revealed.
It will go on to be danced with now. And in a previous age it may have been used to kill a kangaroo. Or even a man.
I wonder now had it always been there, waiting to be found? The mulga has died completely so one small part of it can rest in a man’s hand. It did not feel wrong to me then. And doesn’t now. Were the men created to find it? Or was it the other way round?
Later they hunted for kangaroos. I went along. Silent and alien. They were more silent yet. 6 or 7 shots later. 6 or 7 dead kangaroos. Half the night gone. Had they to been there waiting to be found? They are respectfully and ritually butchered. A debt pf grattitude is owned.
The smell is overwhelming. The meat is intense.
A short prose poem about how we interact with our world.