Our bricks and mortar sit on rammed earth like dirt sits on our skin. What seems so solid, so dependable is nothing more than a visitation on the earth. A layer to one day be washed away by choice, storm or the certainty of time itself.
Circular Quay rests like the nest of a kingfisher against the water, incubating fragile eggs which hold such promise. A heart with all the trains and busses like blood lines pulling and pumping the vital molecules of us in and out. With every beat the atrium of Wynard and the ventricle of Central Station fill and empty with fresh hands, fresh legs and fresh minds to replenish and repair. To ensure growth.
Our icons, The Harbor Bridge and The Opera House, like two eyes watching the world as it watches us without blinking. The memories of all that has been and a dignified glimpse into what might come are carved into the struts and sails like scars on a shark, still swimming. What peculiar fame might cross from Kirribilli? What distant culture might visit?
A spider web of communication like nerves sprawls so deliberate but invisible in the air around us. A sticky trap, once touched is permanent. The pain and pleasure of our being is broadcast over the internet, fired between mobile phones and occasionally even passed by ancient land lines. How could we possibly do without? How did anyone ever speak or hear or even think before the smart phone?
How did anyone ever hunt or gather?
We think this place is ours, but only what we build belongs to us. Only what we buy is listed in our portfolio.
The ants still march without thought or question over sand or carpet. They dine on whatever the earth provides as they always have, with Doritos or dead enemies for mains. The lamington we forgot to cover for dessert.
The bats still find a branch to hang from, whether it’s wood or cable. Their acceptance, even embrace, is evident as the sun rests and they wake to fly only a little out of reach of students and the homeless alike.
Dogs and cats argue over affection while possums nestle naturally in the trees between sky scrapers. Rodents build houses out of twigs or newspapers without reading them. The ibis lives in bins.
Above and between and below they live. We live. Our home is their home.