Wolfe Creek Crater rises out of the ground
like an overturned frisbee. They say
something landed here with an almighty
thud. The clouds were torn and shredded
like ripped paper - the kind
you make yourself at home. I stand here
on the rim, the red dirt wind
blowing in from history without
a thought. Now there is a parking area.
There are rules about when and where.
Whatever landed here had its own
rules, bullying its way past
laws of gravity and the stratosphere.
First, the act; then - rules. Signs. We
follow. John Sands may make a game
of it, Paul Kelly may write a song. The
Almighty Thud may gain a following
and gain tax exemptions cynics never
achieve. Frisbees that glow in the dark
will be sold wherever two or more
are gathered. A flock? Yes. We follow.
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