Morning Patrol

She begins before the light settles,

stepping onto the track

to see what the night’s weather has left behind.

Wind and rain can change a trail quickly,

fallen limbs, soft edges,

water cutting new lines through old ground.

This is when she likes to begin,

the hour when Country speaks softest

and says the most.

The path meets her

with a softness it didn’t have last week,

soil loosened by the night’s rain

as if the ground itself

has exhaled.

Mist clings low across the trail,

a pale drifting veil

that curls around her ankles.

Tiny droplets cling to her lashes,

cool as breath on glass,

gone the moment they warm.

She tastes the shift before she sees it,

a mineral edge in the air,

lifted by moisture that lingered

longer than usual.

Buds hold their quiet tension

beneath their skins,

not flowering yet,

but gathering themselves,

the promise of change felt more than seen.

Light filters through the pink gums

in thin, hesitant strands,

caught in fog,

drawn across the track

like threads unsure of their place.

As the first rays touch the wet trunks,

eucalyptus oils rise

like a faint, breathing haze.

Colours deepen around her,

stringybark dark with damp,

moss brightening along stone,

ferns turning green again

as they ease upward from the cool night.

Bird calls carry differently today.

A honeyeater’s clear note

travels farther than it should,

riding the still air

from deep within the gully.

A scarlet robin flits low to the track,

bolder in the cool,

tracking insects dulled by the night.

Rosellas pass overhead,

their wings drawing slower,

heavier arcs

in the thickened morning quiet.

She pauses to lift a branch

dropped clean in the dark.

The leaves beneath her gloves

bend instead of crack,

softened by dew,

breathing up a scent of soil

and honeyed understory.

Under them she finds

the first pale tips of milkmaids,

the shy curl of heath flowers,

beginnings so small

they would be missed by anyone

but her.

When she straightens,

fog folds around her breath,

holding its shape

a little longer than yesterday.

A chill lingers in the fabric of her uniform,

following her even as she walks.

The landscape feels paused,

not what it was,

not yet what it will become,

just leaning quietly

toward its next turn.

Nothing announces it,

but she feels the difference

in the way sound carries,

in the weight of the air,

in how the morning holds itself

a little differently than before.

She walks on,

steady in the quiet,

hearing Country speak

in its unhurried way,

a truth offered softly

yet impossible to miss.