Tony and I spent the day out in the Swan Valley on Saturday. It was really nice to get away from the house for a while, to a place that neither of us had been. Going on a Saturday had it’s benefits too. It was quiet out in the bush. I dare say that it would have been a lot busier yesterday with all the Sunday drivers and picnickers to contend with.

I wrote this while standing on the banks of Avon River in the Walyunga National Park (pic 2).

There is no sound here. No bird calls. No crunching of twigs underfoot. No cars. No phone. There is nothing. Not even the river that runs past speaks. It winds its way inaudibly through the grimy tone on tone greenness. It doesn’t bubble. It doesn’t foam. It meanders past unaware of me on the bank, confused and overwhelmed by the quiet. Not even the rain that is falling makes a sound. Drops land silently on my shoulder and on the leaves by my feet. Burnished brown and red cups now hold perfect puddles. I feel this place deep in my soul. It speaks without words and I hear it as surely as I hear him turn to leave.