-after the fight- after the fight, I stormed from the cool of the bluestone house into the dry dirt yard my face as hot as my temper. the dust swirling at ground level. the dogs followed my furious steps down to the low paddock where the lone horse named leo leaned into the stand of decades-old eucalyptus trees that had grown into one another over the course of several years. the dogs with noses to the ground were disinterested in my emotions. they caught the scent of rabbit and wandered a little ways off, zig-zagging past one another. the horse shook his brown head to fend off flies, so I took my hands and cradled the long face as the tickle of his soft nose hit my ear. I was at peace here. the land and the animals, my sanctuary. I continued on, climbing over the wire fence to where the dogs now had been trying to find a fresher track. the dam was deep, cool and the width of a river. our golden dog jumped straight in, and then out again, his tail and rump wriggling in a quick shiver and, in the dam, I watched the ripples of water flow, echoing out from his disturbance. O the memory of the day’s heat, the bellbirds' chirping, ringing high throughout the tree tops at inconsistent intervals. now my mind searches through memory for other days there. for fascinating kookaburras, for skinks, blue tongued lizards, cormorants, storks, and heron and ibis. i hold on to glimpses of draping silvery green eucalyptus, in both long and short leaves. magpies caroling at dawn, and a hillside of grey kangaroo cautiously grazing. errant foxes skipping through the long grass, swiftly clearing fences in the still-early mornings. the sulfur-crested cockatoo with their dreadful screeching in flocks above. the yellow tailed black cockatoo cheekily squawking to each other in the stand of tall pines as they feasted upon green pine cones. bats at dusk, rats drawn to the horses feed. spiders of all description: huntsman are big, but look out for the redback and whitetails! Once, a copperhead sunbathing on a rock. possums growling in the night, and playing at chase once the stars emerged. periwinkle, kangaroo paw and freesia growing wild in the neighbour’s paddock and the red bottle brush, ever bold. Our yard dotted with melaleuca bushes. the reddish sunset, and now anger, for the most part, erased. The mournful lowing of cattle from a nearby farm. The dogs barking. the cool of the house, always waiting. These scenes, played over in my mind, bring both longing and peace. O such peace, in my piece of Australia. A.L.Miller 2009 -There is a pub in Australia- There is a pub in Australia Where there burns a welcoming fire in the grate As you enter through the wide yellow door And a great friendly dog comes to greet you before he is shooed to the back room, down a narrow corridor. In the dining room of this pub You will find a quiet spot with elegant place settings and a view of eucalyptus and country cows swishing their complaisant tails in the long grass. And in this room of elegance and quiet familiarity you will find portrait upon portrait of young brides and grooms and their guests at this very pub, through the generations. A marvel to you as everyone in each party has a story to tell, through dress and expressions and gestures. Each one sings something poignant, rich and remarkable. Their joy is palpable. The place has it's uncommon history, a family-owned affair. The photos call you out of the current day and lull you into a sense of holy family, of purity and blessedness, newness, genuine elation, expectancy, celebration. Of first love, of happy union and reunion. The ideal first face and first day of love. The whole sense of community centers you, in this pub, the heart of the small town. Centered and well fed, you walk out onto the porch and imagine the happy couples and their families bidding you and each other Farewell! and Safe travels home! and you smile wide and bright as the plains that are your mantel on the journey back. A.L. Miller 2008 -I am walking- I am walking 10, 000 miles away Up the steep hills with the dog Up the winding and rocky path Past the horses I am walking with wind whipping at my face Long strands of brown hair billowing wildly Like a medusa of sorts I am thin again, without this extra layer of Pain and hurt and fat from illness Without an injury which keeps me from walking. Without a broken heart from the marriage Left behind in a cloud of dust and brokenness I am walking past it all, in my mind The four horses, the Eucalyptus, the periwinkle The rabbits, the Egrets, the Ibis, the cockatoo. My heart walks through itself, breaking itself open. Finding it was home is just as hard as ever. It WAS. Now it is in another home. It IS. Finding now that it is waiting. Waiting and watching the old and the familiar creeping back into play. The little boy, my nephew, no longer a baby. For my siblings, a new baby on the way, a new marriage. Waiting and watching my heart healing. Baseball games, the o

Here is the coke can story from my childhood: My grandfather was a liquor salesman and would supply us with many neat advertising items, one being a heavy metal can given out by the Coca Cola company as a gimmick to advertise their product. The can was approximately 18 inches across, 24 inches deep and was used by our family as a cooler to stock drinks on picnics and BBQs. From the time I was about three, I used it as a personal cooling device, filling it with cold water during the hottest and worst days of summer. I would dunk and splash much like a bird in a bath. One horribly hot afternoon when I was six, I filled the can from the hose and prepared for some refreshing summer fun. Not realizing that I had had a growth spurt over the preceding year, I climbed in butt first and squished down into the water. It squirted up from the sides around my rump and when I tried to move I was stuck tight. The more I squirmed the tighter I got. I began to panic, knocking myself over and rolling down the little hill toward the Willow whose trunk kept me from rolling into the creek. I was terror stricken and began to scream so loudly that it roused the attention of my family...bringing my brother, sister, Nana, mother and even my father from his work in the garage. They all stood gawking at the spectacle. My wet strands of red hair wriggled like Medusa and my arms and legs were waving around like tentacles from some marine animal that was squeezing back into her den. Brother and sister immediately began convulsing with laughter, holding their sides, tears streaming down their cheeks. Nana's ample bosom was heaving up and down and my mother simply stood with her mouth a gape. Then I heard the sound of my father over my own squalling..."Oh for Christ's sake..."he bellowed out. In three giant leaps he covered the yellowing lawn and yelled at my brother to come hold my arms while he took hold of the bottom of the can. He began to pull, but the suction was too great and they could not budge me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my sister rolling on the ground. Nana had lit a cigarette and sat on the porch exhaling smoke rings. Mom sat by me commanding me to stop screaming. I managed to calm myself some and heard my father say with exasperation, "Well I just don't know..." as he walked away shaking his head. He returned with a hammer and screwdriver and began punching holes in the bottom of the can with Mom telling him to be careful not to punch my bottom. "Punch it!" he yelled, "I'm gonna paddle it if I can get it out of here!" Of course he DID get it out and I did NOT get a paddlin'. But I did have to live for years with the torture and torment at the recounting of that mortifying moment at every family gathering.