It stands idle, empty, cloaked in mysterious ruin, light filters through the floor boards. Swallows nest in the rafters, beetles swarm in old wood bins, rats and mice nestle in the walls. Owls glide through the gloom. The sudden transition of gloom from stark sunlight makes it become a moody haunted place. I stand listening in the silence, every sound clear and identifiable. Movement of wind, thump of heat expanding tin, scrape of bird claws across the roof, slight swish of wings in the rafters, the scrabble of feet in the walls. Companionable, familiar noises. I run my fingers slowly over the greased stained wood and empty my mind ...

The heat, the throbbing noise, the smell of exhaust fumes. A steady metallic whirr of diesel run hand pieces. A percussive complexity plays against the ear, a steel chorus of never ending sound. The demanding shouts of the shearers amid the clattering combs and cutters. In constant motion, platform scales and a twin pronged bale tools. Piles of fleece and bits of wool spill from overflowing wool bins. Rousies noisily wield brooms. Fleece is piled in mounds like dirty laundry. Screaming sheep are plucked from holding pens. Bare chest bodies streaked with sweat. Long clean sweeping blows, creaming the belly wool to the floor, a repositioning of the sheep in one swift move. The curling back of the rest of the fleece in one smooth easy piece. An assembly line of wool forever moving. The heat, the smell, the sounds tumble through my mind in a riot of movement.

The pictures and sounds fade as I remove my hand and I am left with the silence. Through the open windows, I stare out at the eye hurting landscape, framing distant sandhills and low intricate endless scrub, the air throbs with the glare and the heat radiates. Distant sandridges glare above the scrubline. Emus stalk the scrub plains and hawks hunt the updrafts.