The forest is quiet and calm, apart from the wind ripping through the trees’ leaves.
The soft crunch of my bare feet on the ground creates a symphony with the soft trickle of the river in front of me.
My hands swing by my side, grazing my top as I keep walking through my home, not quite knowing where I'm going but knowing the way back.
The grass tickles my legs as I walk through the trail made by people and animals before me.
I know my roots go deeper into the ground than the ones from the gum trees; my connection to my land is stronger than any other force.
The link between my ancestors and myself is the reason I am now walking through the forest, away from any distractions or bustling traffic.
Away from loud people and tall buildings.
I stop abruptly on the track. Ahead of me is a large gugaa.
His tail flicks the grass loudly as he makes his own trail.
His markings are his history, printed onto his scaly skin, telling a story no one knows.
His claws grip the red dirt, scratching his mark into the path as he makes his way towards the canoe tree before starting his ascent into the shrub above.
His scaly body intertwines with the paperback, making shreds of leaves and bark cascade onto the ground in front of me; Australian snow.
My legs urge me forward as I continue along the unseen trail, following my ancestors' footprints.
The soft feeling of dirt along the riverbank on my bare, cracked feet offers simple comfort.
It's nice being back in the forest where I can be myself, alongside many ancestors before me.
I keep sauntering through the forest, my mind unburdened by the modern world.
16°C