The girl steps off the verandah and enters the greyscale of the front yard. The stars draw her eyes skyward, the stories visible in their configurations, the spaces between them also narrative. The moon has taken its place amid the stones and is the principle reflector of light, apart from the mirror leant against a mallee stump, the birds’ fascination for it gone with the sun. Moths are busy pollinating, the pulse of their flight as if the dark is breathing. An iridescent Snowy Footman, white except for the black along the margins of its wings. A Saltpan Wave, its pink and orange patterning reminiscent of wind-sculpted dunes.

They are stealth travellers, as is she.

Even so, a Brushtail Possum startles at her approach. In its mouth, furred wings crushed between sharp teeth. From the far end of the property, a Southern Boobook reprises its two-note call.

The girl waits for a cloud to complete its transit so that the positions become clear, the Southern Cross pointing to a landmass beyond the line of her vision. She is dressed as she arrived, though cleaner now, the seeds gone from her hair, and her tongue without the thirst to it.

A Common Gum Snout Moth brushes against her leg and she reaches for it too late. Every night needs its companion. Behind her the house sleeps, its fascia boards enamelled by the moon. She looks towards the place from where she came, the desert edge a shadowy rustle beyond which lie cooling sands, the remnants of her footprints gnawed at by the wind.

As the Southern Boobook speaks, she is all ears, her body pivoting ever so slightly, like a leaf dangling at the end of a broken web. Boo-book boo-book. Leave, not leave.

The decision is hers.