At the top of Mt Ngungun we huffed together;
three Fijian girls, their hair catching the last rays
puffed out how totally worth it the view was -
white screens in hands, heads down. Twittering away.

A big frowning woman swipes sweat from
her cleavage thinking no one saw.
We all saw and felt the embarrassment
roll down to our sweaty, baking feet.

Some 6 foot army boys came galloping up too,
racing right to top ridge; their excitement not
hiding the discomfort of chaffing balls
and the idea of wearing lycra bike pants next time..

No one could hear the kookaburras going off
though with those last tepid strains of sun.
A young boy was having a pretend car crash with a Eucalyptus,
careening through the scrub like a lost fire truck.

But in the quiet moments, as he pounded
round enough bends, you could hear a far off
blue heeler, maybe on one of the custard apple farms..
And the steady whoosh of yesterday’s rain
rolling, rolling down the mountain.

The air oozed with moisture from soaked gums
and puddles full of clay disguised as rocks.
Just for a moment the green of all the bracken ferns
seemed to become us and we them..
All at once we’re green sponges bouncing down a hill.

The birds bring us back from our reverie -
one beeps every three seconds ‘doot, doot, doot’
like a beacon guiding the way in the dim light;
another makes a loud-long squawk as if saying
‘now this is what a bird sounds like pal.. ha!’

As the last bend appears, an unglued hiking boot flaps away -
a lonesome Granny with the world’s best yarn.
Threatening to cease but finding a new corner,
she trails off into the new darkness,
blinding car lights, iPods and Lorna Janes.