a hen croons in the chookhouse & the sound is so itchy, rising - & rising the smell of possum skins hung up on nails to dry; dust and birdshit caked on the beams of the mezzanine floor; & there's the old pram the bantam got round in, paint flaking off the white cane.

but now by the chookhouse in the winter sun fifteen kids pass the parcel. a freddo frog in every layer, mother at the cd player, eagling for who misses out. and one short shorn redhead is wandering the garden - sees the circle, looks curious, wanders on. like there's no recognition that she's of the same breed. gets caught up in tearing dried seedheads from the grass.