She moves through the night, the forest dark, the trees gathered and whispering support. She passes through them, relying as much on memory as the shielded light from her torch. Her mind is alive, her senses alert. A brief hesitation, then the decision to take a shortcut, leaving the ridge and cutting across a small lagoon, now empty, following a wallaby path. Above the trees the sky is dark, clouds skimming low and quick, as if infused with her urgency.

An owl swoops, a flash of white against the grey-black, and is gone. She stops, turns off the torch, feels the blackness move in, enfold her. Comfort her. She breathes it in, the smell of it, the odour of this world. She can feel its desire, its thirst, the longing for water. She closes her eyes, then opens them again. The clouds part momentarily and the sky is ablaze with stars, so very bright through the canopy. It seems for a heartbeat as if it’s the galaxy that moves and the world that remains static.

Then the greyness closes again and the illusion passes. She reaches the creek and edges down its sides, making her way along its dry bed, the easiest route. There is leaf litter and cracked earth and a few colonising saplings, either struggling or dead. There should be water here, not young trees. At this time of year, with the winter rains in the alps, the water should be above her head, its sustenance bathing the earth, feeding the roots of the river redgums and being thrust back into the sky, breathed out into the misting night. On a midnight so cold, the trees should be wrapped in fog, embraced by it. She breathes out, holding her torch to see her steaming breath. She alone has moisture to spare…