The Creek

Small and slender as a pencil, the snake coiled itself inside the canoe. I guess I’m not using that today. I take off the olive slip I’m wearing as a dress and edge into the dark water. Thighs, hips waist, breasts, neck. I take a breath and let the water cover my ears. I can hear the clicking of yabbies on the creek floor. My dress sways in the breeze. I swim slowly out to the rock, so as not to disturb the wombat on the creek bank. The breeze gathers momentum. Floating on my back, ears under the water, I hear the faint but distinctive rev of a two stroke motorbike. I dart around the creek bend and into the reeds, hoping my slip blends with the scenery. I wait for the sound to fade before slinking back to the bank. The wombat has retreated to his burrow, the snake has moved on. There is deep tyre mark where the water meets the bank. I creep to the tree that holds my slip.
It is gone.

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