Sandy Point the track runs out with the blue tide of soldier crabs at Sandy Point just my footprints and the skewerings of a pair of nervy oystercatchers left off, piping in alarm cold shadows from the dunes creep down the golden spell is broken I’m lost and wondering if I’ll find my way by nightfall if I follow this wombat path through the prickly heath and clouds of mosquitoes and there you are! a busy tussock by an ant hill with flickering tongue, buttons for eyes and a mat of caramel quills in chocolate fur stop!…
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