Snaky Creek, just out of Manna Hill (ironic given the arid country, but then, perhaps not so ironic: I wonder if quails fall from the sky around here?!). Not Snake Creek. Or Big Snake Creek. Or Black Snake Creek even. But an adjectival snaky, suggesting deviousness. A slipperiness. A snakiness. And perhaps a sense of humour on the part of those who named it? Or was it such a pit of vipers that’s perpetual snakiness had to be perpetually commemorated those of us passing through? As I jot some notes wondering all this we roll over Cockscomb Creek then Winnininnie Creek. My musing about naming places dries up – to be replaced by a setting ball of yellow fire which makes driving a chore, and both of us wish the bugs on the windscreen had been removed when we had a chance, such is the now refracting light. But the fire lights up the distant jagged landform, dusting the rock with a yellow halo which reduces us to silence. The art and colour is off a palette none of use could devise.
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