I can’t sleep here, on this Wiradjuri land; upon this hill of learning. Awake until the sun comes up and the morose voices subside; the dawn light blades whispers back into the creases of scarred country. I can’t sleep here, in the writers centre; a beautiful place with so many bright voices that burn into the night, spectral sages cloud my ears like moths to a flame. Too many secrets here; ceremony ground now a university. There is too much information in this place here, singed, black pages that the granite boulders relay in monolithic volumes. Tumbleweeds spin and stutter. The air licks with a cold wet mouth that bears the driest parables . . . I just can’t sleep on this beautiful soil that was sung . . . and sewn with too many secrets . . . Even by the daylight hours, in the peppered corners of the cottage, tirades in session and ghosts forging motions. Outside, vicious birds swoop across the battlefield, picking at the skins of audible shadows . . .