Quiet

By Rebecca Stewart


The bladeless windmill stands tall and proud against the clear blue sky. I look sadly upon the diminishing dam. We need rain, and soon. The place isn’t going to hold up much longer without a decent shower.

The wind ripples the dry grass in passing. Small patches of green amongst the brown show the potential for the fertile life that winter and rains will bring. But the golden hills have their own beauty; sometimes it is almost sad to lose it to the lush green.

The bronzed grass isn’t as repulsive as my city friend seems to think. It shows the cycle of life that is the country; it shows the flow of the seasons. The contrasting browns of the grass with the freshly ploughed paddocks add texture to the would-be bland countryside. I point this out to my companion and she snorts her disdain.

I cannot understand her dislike of the fresh country air or the beautiful, almost endless hills that surround us. The rich, sweet smell of the dry grass floats through the open window of the car. I point out the almost grown lambs and the shorn sheep. She tells me they’re ugly without their wool. I tell her they probably think she is ugly too.

As we get closer to the house, the willows along the creek wave gracefully in the wind. The red gums along the side of the road form a guard of honour, saluting us as we pass. I park in the shade of the great eucalypt that stands out the front of the house. We get out, and again I try to convince my companion of the beauty of the country. She ignores me and walks to the house. I watch the rosellas noisily take flight as we approach the house, disrupting them from their food.

I open the door for her. She moves into the lounge room and turns on the television. I smile sadly. The beauty is lost on her. She only sees beauty in cars and tall buildings. She cannot see the beauty of the flat plains that surround us, or the slowly rising hills, sometimes patched with copses of trees.

I start the tea, making sure I provide properly for the both of us. The open window brings the keen smell of the dampening air, which mingles with the intense aroma of roasting meat. As it slowly cooks in the oven, I walk out to the veranda to watch the sunset. I bring my companion. She argues the whole way. I tell her to be quiet and watch. She grudgingly stops her protesting.

I point to the east. The bright blue is slowly fading to the dark indigo that will soon be night. I point to the west. The sky is alight with deep reds, light pinks and oranges. The cloud that covers the bright sun guides its rays out in all directions. Slowly the sun sinks below the horizon. The pungent smell of wet earth from the nearby creek seeps up to us on the veranda. The intense red of the sunset gently fades into the dark of the night. My companion and I walk back inside. Tea is ready and we eat.

My friend grumbles about the crickets, and the frogs, and the moving of the creek. I tell her that it is no worse than the traffic in the city, but she isn’t satisfied. She tells me the country is too different for her, the quiet too dominant, the single storey buildings too far apart. I smile at her and tell her that this is how it is meant to be.