I fell off my horse on the weekend.

High sided clean over his head and landed flat on my back, hard enough that the medics came over to check me. I was fine. But it's worth telling you why it happened, because it had nothing to do with the jump.

The desert surprises. This time it was the rain, the green. Waking in the swag to a mist rolling across the plains, thick, and there's nothing to do but wait and take it in.

In the morning I get on the bike and ride to the desert. Broken Hill. Motorcycle, sketchbook, ink.

You don't get fast answers out there. You sit. You wait. You listen. You also see the scars, the attempts to make that country into a wheat crop or a grazing paddock or a timber lot, the madness of thinking any of it would hold. The land doesn't care. It says no matter what you do, I'm still here…