“The world’s a boring place,” my ageing father frequently says.
He’s wrong. It’s still full of mystery and wonder, if you just look. “You should read the papers more,” I suggest. “Today scientists found some dinosaur tracks in Mongolia.”
“Nothing exciting about more fossils,” he harrumphs.
“These are fresh prints.”
Michael is an Australian-based writer whose work has appeared in several anthologies and online magazines, but not yet in the geological record.
The world shrinks as I watch three ants wander the pots on my balcony.
Patient travellers, carefully mapping their world to the top of each plant. Tiny questing spirits searching the furthest edges of their universe.
These brave little souls shouldn’t go unrecognised.
Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria, I christen them.
Michael has only a fair to middling green thumb, and always tries to look out for the little critters in his garden.
Let’s take a break, you suggested, and told me to go see the world.
So I did. But every city, every day is empty without you.
I constantly message, phone, but never hear back.
I’ve studied so many maps but none of them shows me the way back to you.
Being on the road is common for this Australian writer. Fortunately, none of Michael’s own travel experiences are like those described here.