They’re walking between the rolling hills, the folds of the land. It’s just like it used to be, only she’s so much taller and now it’s her who needs to slow to match his pace.

Around them are close-cropped paddocks, rabbit burrows, low walls of piled stone by the roadways; taut tension-wire fences cutting across the land.

In the corner of the bottom paddock stands an ancient oak. Below that an old bath-tub, used as a water trough, and some lazy cattle gathered around in the shade. The old fence-line is marked now by a row of conifers, and the occasional rotted fence-post standing useless and alone.

Farther out, by the creek, the native gums hold sway. From one lower branch a frayed rope dangles over a stagnant billabong. Almost, on the wind or in the memory, there are the sounds of children laughing and chiacking and splashing. Echoes from a summer long since passed.

Twilight is coming on. A crack from a .22 sounds from over the hill on some farm beyond.

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This is a Contemporary Rural Short Story about what is lost to progress.