Whistling with a Honkey Nut

As a kid growing up in the bush, learning how to whistle on a honkey nut.

The arrival: the storm front — ozone, cold wind, wet grass and a bitter green snap, rain starting to hit leaves somewhere above you.

The heart: the granite under your feet, cold and mineral. Gum leaf, a piercing whistle of camphor through the dry nut in your fist, one wildflower bending sideways.

The settle: the forest takes over. Dark native hardwood, smoke, wet earth rising, dry amber holding the cold — the boy goes home, the bush stays on your skin all night.