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Could a storm burst / because butterfly wings beat / a thousand miles away / to tip dominos of change / so the future emerges / like in the Chaos theory we use / to estimate future weather?
Perhaps we were too directive / as we tried to guide while staying connected / with one so young, distracted. Yet there was response. Rules relaxed to laughter / as through best and worst we mucked / together; skills and knowledge grew / living side by side.
The bakery is clean and bright, service cheerful. Mother waits at the counter while her daughter brews coffee. Cooking is done out the back / to fill the cut-back menu / and maintain the family’s dream. The business survives as well as most.
Along the tree lined rural highway / past paddocks where canola gleams / so cars stop for golden photographs / past paddocks where sheep graze / then clumps of darker remnant eucalypts / distant hills wear dancing patches of colour.
The dweller in the bone attic holds countryside as home; thinks of food, safety, health and warmth for family, self and group. Frenetic scuffles rage in the brick canyons where the hunt is commerce and food constructed.