The sun breaches the horizon. Lights up the tips of Dyurrite, its quartzite outcrops once an island in an inland sea. In a sand hollow, a patch of Blue Devils await the first rays.

This is the Wimmera.

So many have perished, others survived.

An endangered Little Desert Peppermint shivers in the dawn breeze, its roots reaching deep into the sandy soil, where it seeks out those of other species, surrounded as it so often is by stringybarks. Close by is a barometric spring. When the air pressure is right, it will rise up and spill across the land.

And here is the river. Though it too is known as the Wimmera, it has more than one name, each part with its own appellation. Barringgi Gadyin. So many more. Mist rises off the surface, light puncturing it as it reaches the treetops. Some say a river, like the sky, has moods, but it is also volume and movement and distance. A collective. A beginning and an end. Here is where the child drowned, the White-faced Heron calling, arrk arrk arrk. And here is where the Story-carrier crossed, on her way to find her people.

On the banks of the river, Gatyekarr begins to wake. The sun travels down the main street, past three Long-billed Corellas picking at the refuse overflowing from a bin. A white van sits waiting, its satellite dish ready to send out stories, true and untrue and everything in between. More will come. The windows of the hotel reflect the morning light, its western corner riddled with Drywood Termites, their scaly bodies hum-humming against the wood. Hay spirals on the bitumen, mixes with bright confetti, as a gust of wind swings a sign hanging from a streetlamp, Time to remember.

Listen, listen deeply now.

In a street watched over by silos, Holly Grevillea thrives at the bottom of some steps, its flowers dripping nectar that has summoned bees. At the back of the house, a fire burns low. Placed on top of it are branches from Emu Bush and White Mallee. People walk through the smoke. A woman with red glasses. A girl in a frilly dress. A large gathering. Here now, for the longest time, always, the First Peoples – the Wotjobaluk, Jaadwa, Jadawadjali, Wergaia, Jupagulk.

The sun climbs higher, warming the creamy flowers of a Sweet Quandong that will soon become bright red fruit. It lights up the edges of the desert, along which runs a dusty road. A Rainbow Bee-eater exits its nest built into the embankment and shakes sand from its wings. Swoops to avoid an oncoming truck and lifts its beak with the frisson of living another day.

And here is the Seed-planter, walking among a stand of Wallowa, the pods now ready to harvest. She sniffs the air, vestiges of a distant fire or some other natural process she cannot yet name. Beside her is the girl, wearing a long-sleeved shirt to protect her arms. The girl runs her hand along the Wallowa’s rattly seedpods and watches them drop into the bag. She finds the sound satisfying, the gathering and the fall, working in unison, and all the other songs.

She, too, is a Seed-planter. Coming into herself.

Some of the pods she leaves for the birds.