I am at Bundanon.
Surrounded by birds, cows, kangaroos, wombats, bush, river, sky.
I spot an echidna on my morning walk.
In the wild.
How lucky am I?
I sit on my verandah.
I work at my desk.
I walk across paddocks.
Wombats play statues in the grass as I pass; black-coated cows chew and stare.
I immerse myself in the river like it’s the Ganges, washing off the outside world.
‘This residency is like a sanitarium for me,’ I say to one of the other artists. ‘Or is it sanatorium?’
She looks at me strangely. I’ve forgotten how to talk to people.
‘Whichever isn’t the Weet-bix brand,’ I add, unable to remember. ‘That’s what Bundanon is for me.’
Time to think, to write, to dream, to plan new projects.
Time to write poetry … and I don’t even write poetry.
Time to read Animal People, which Charlotte Wood left in the Writer’s Cottage recently.
Time to notice a lemon tree in the bush by the side of the road on the way up to the gate.
Time to pick up a dried-out snake skin to add to my collection of found objects.
Time to remember who I am.