Over Christmas we went to our cousins place, which is a farm. Strangely enough I took a lot of photos which I seem to have forgotten to post on here, so here are some of the cows chooks and sky I saw while at the farm. I did take photos of people too, but I figure you will enjoy these ones more.

As of last week we finished all our school holidays too. And are back to work. Well kinda, I spent all Monday editing photos from a photo shoot Sunday afternoon and got no 'school work' done at all. I am kinda finished school, but not exactly I am still finishing some things I was doing last year and then starting a Philosophy course thing.... hope you enjoyed the photos! 

Close to where we live there is a Traveling Stock Reserve, but it is not used for traveling stock, but is agisted. Still anyone is free to walk and play in there. I have always liked going out into the paddock and exploring or building houses with logs, branches and sticks. When we were little we would go collecting what I called 'moon stone' for I had never seen rocks like that anywhere, they were often a creamy colour, and they had sharp edges with smooth sides. I would carry them back home and put them in my collection. I have no idea what happened to that collection, I can only guess it got chucked in the bin with a lot of other junk, which I probably called precious things, but Mum knew better, except for the rocks. 

I drove past a house the other day and it inspired me to write, this;

Once this was not a sad little house, I am sure. Once a man, or maybe more, laboured on its foundations. Each wooden slat, cut and placed by loving hands. With joy and laughter, looking forward to a brighter future, this house rose up from the steep hill. Finally the wife arrived, the furniture, and the corrugated iron for the roof. It rumbled up on a slow moving wagon, drawn by a team of oxen, maybe. Maybe they had trudged the tree boarded track up the mountains for days, weeks.

Once, maybe once, the young wife ran up and into her husbands arms,  so glad that they were together again. So glad of the beautiful house, a house of her own, with wooden boards to sweep the dust from. Together they would make this their home, possibly.

As the rain fell, it drummed down on the roof, horrendously noisy, but they sat together, knowing that the house was solid built. It would not blow away, or collapse like a tent of canvas. Maybe soon after that children could have come.

Once they could have leaped off the bottom step and run down the slope, crossing over the fallen tree that bridged the creek, and jumped into their fathers arms as he arrived home. Did he come from taking their cattle to market? Or selling the furs of the animals he trapped? Or from the homestead where The Boss lived? 

Other times the children could have run with buckets down to the bubbling mountain stream and tried to catch the little mosquito fish, that darted through the clear water. Little trousers, or skirts, hoisted high. Maybe muddy little feet ran back up the hill to show Mother their prizes. Or maybe they fished out the fat black tadpoles, and kept them in a jar, watching as they grew legs, squiggly tails shrank and then disappeared. 

Once upon a time, long ago, many things could have happened in and around that happy little house. House of promises, hopes and dreams, once. Now though, it sits a weathered grey. On a hillside, far from anywhere, a dull house rots, silent except for the clatter, bang, and scratch of the rusted iron roofing, that has now come loose. Each gust of wind, pulls at the house, and it succumbs, sinking away, slowly returning to dust, and memories.

What memories it must hold though, if only I could hear it speak. If only the creaks, could, be interpreted, or the language of old things found out. But the people who lived there once, have gone, grown old and died. Maybe the children still live on somewhere, I wonder have they forgotten, the once happy little house on a hill. Or are they no longer, here to be able to remember, have they too passed away. I do not know, but I wonder, what does that sad little house remember?

Or maybe I should say I sneaked around trying to get as close as possible to cows without then running away. While my brothers worked near the creek trying to erode away years of dirt in one hour. So much for things like the grand canyon taking millions of years to erode...it could have been done in a few years by some boys or maybe in an even shorter time .....days.... by a big world wide flood....

Ok a cow pat is not the most beautiful thing, and neither are flies, but if you look closer you may be surprised. Beauty can be found in the smelliest things. 

As I walked through the paddock today all the oldish cow pats could be located from far off by the white fungi that had popped up out of them. I thought how amazing that a smelly old cow pat could make just the right place for these pretty white fungi to grow in. 

The more fresh cow pats had a different beauty on them.  Flies are annoying and usually fairly plain, but while walking today I cam across some that were not so. 

Small green things glittered from the muck, like tiny emeralds. If I came up to them too fast they would all disappear in a big buzz, but if I approached slowly they would stay. 

Their shiny bodies reflecting back different colours from the light spectrum, yellow, green, blue and turquoise. 

Their transparent wings looked so perfect, and their eyes were a strange orange colour. 

I couldn't help but see that the flies were a beautiful part of God's creation he wants us to enjoy. Normally they are annoying, but they can be beautiful too. 

The dry cow pats in the paddock didn't contain any wonders but I do know from experience that they are also really good missiles. So there is something good in every cow pat!

The rain has come, a little rain, not enough. Some grass will grow, if it gets a chance. If the starving cattle don’t just eat every tiny blade before it has a chance to lengthen. They are so hungry. The rain came too late for some. 

One cow laid down on a bare patch of dirt as the rain started. Long grass once grew here, now the cows have eaten it, almost down to the roots. She lays rain streaming down her muddied sides. Rain brings grass, but not soon enough. 


The rain ends already tiny specks of green appear amongst the mud and old dead stalks, lying flat on the ground. The grass grown fast, but not fast enough for this cow. The farmer does his rounds and sees her lying there, he leaves a little hay beside her, but it is too late. She just turns her head away.

The farmer comes back the next morning and takes her away. The rest of the cows then come. They sniff around, poking at the ground where their fellow beast had lain. They see the hay and make short work of it. The slower beasts don’t get there in time. 

New grass is springing up, fast, but ever so slow. It takes a lot of grass to satisfy an already starved cow. There is not enough. The cows strip leaves from any trees they can find. They eat the hard tasteless stalks of grass that is long dead. They eat the weeds in the paddock, though normally they would steer clear of them.  But they must eat.

Australia is a land of extremes, drought then flood then drought again. The animal must be hardy to survive. Even our modern knowledge cannot stop the drought. It lingers, eating up life. 

Yet there is hope, green returns, if only a little.

Ravens, they circle, calling in others of their kind. Beautiful, black birds calling sorrowfully in the sky. They know what is happening. Beautiful birds they are, yet dreadful too.

The grass does not grow fast enough. The kangaroos also hunger. They can get through the fences at least. But they must cross over the road, to get from water too food. There are lots of kangaroos. They come closer to where people live, where people drive their cars. Cars speed along the road, how can a kangaroo with a broken leg survive? Especially in a time like this? The grass is old and dead or only just starting to grow. The rain came too late.

Yet there is hope.