I can see. I can visualise a road... By the road is a tree near a lake, a white twisted tree. Under the tree in a hollow space is a sleeping tiger snake.
What do snakes dream of? A mouse. A rabbit. A flash of anger, a strike, panic and terror fading into death. Dislocated dinner. Corner me and your eyes will bleed, cross my path and you'll rest in the frozen earth.
Devils and tigers, whisky and cheese, chocolate and bridges, lakes and churches. And roads. Lots of roads. There are one hundred and twenty seven colours of Tasmanian rain - a bichromatic sequence from snow gray through wild forest green and into southern ocean blue. My favorite is high valley lake mist pale light drizzle in waxing gibbous moonlight at winter soltace. Best appreciated on owl wings above the tree tops when there's a hint of snow in the air.
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