There is a different mood among the
Eucalyptus. Here, the rustle of leaves
does not cause one to start in fear
that there will be a hungry charge from
out the dark, with talons sharp and
white fangs—all that are welcoming.
Here, the soil does not pound beneath
one’s feet, and all that is glimpsed amid
the rustle of leaves are the luminous
eyes of a possum or the shaded beauty of a lyrebird.
The land does not reproach one here; It does not revile one’s very presence; It is not, like Africa, an angry land, and its people, like its beasts, make ineffectual calls that pierce the night but do not stop one’s heart, and allow one to sleep in peace beneath the stars.