Hunting Rabbits

Hunting Rabbits

Hunting Rabbits

The men would often go hunting rabbits
in the countryside around the hostel—
with guns and traps and children following
in the sunlight of afternoon paddocks:
marvelling in their native tongues
at the scent of eucalypts all around.

We never asked where the guns came from
or what was done with them later:
as each rifle’s echo cracked through the hills
and a rabbit would leap as if jerked
on a wire through the air—
or, watching hands release a trap
then listening to a neck being broken.

Later, I could never bring myself
to watch the animals being skinned
and gutted—
                         excitedly
talking about the ones that escaped
and how white tails bobbed among brown tussocks.
For days afterwards
our rooms smelt of blood and fur
as the meat was cooked in pots
over a kerosene primus.

But eat I did, and asked for more,
as I learnt about the meaning of rations
and the length of queues in dining halls—
as well as the names of trees
from the surrounding hills that always seemed
to be flowering with wattles:
growing less and less frightened by gunshots
and what the smell of gunpowder meant—
quickly learning to walk and keep up with men
who strode through strange hills
as if their migration had still not come to an end.