Cootamundra Wattle

Spring comes. And with it a silent drift of gold. I sing the old John Williamson song about Cootamundra Wattles and take too many photos of their great yellow tassels. I find their echoes later around finger prints on the car. Adrift, adrift. We don’t know what we breathe until it lands on the right surface.

My daughter tells me she saw a cloud of gold hanging in the air. “I think I have hay fever,” she says. Perhaps we both picture the particles. Perhaps we both imagine our noses, internally coated like the back of an industrious bee. And then I’m thinking about bees flying through pollen swarms and, like a computer game, point bubbles pinging off. And then my daughter is sneezing. “Bless you!” I say absentmindedly. She cocks an eyebrow at me and goes back to drawing Osiris in the dirt with a stick.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get home. Surely hay fever gets less irritable inside.” But does it? I wonder as we head for the car.

Under an Italian mountain

they’re fishing for dark matter.

Invisible things make me think of honey

Written for Mish’s dVerse haibun prompt “Give me Shelter”.

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