The Cascade Clearing

    When I remember The Cascade Clearing, I remember my mamma. She was a very beautiful mare, with her golden coat and a twinkle in her eyes. She said I looked just like her. She had never had a foal like me. I was born at the clearing. A beautiful place that my mamma knew. We spent most of our days there, rolling in the lush, dewy grass, or twisting and turning around the gigantic eucalyptus trees that towered over us. You could always hear the birds harmonizing with the bush's melody. The koalas sat humbly in their trees, devouring all the leaves or snoring away. Occasionally a herd of kangaroos or wallabies would come and join us to browse on the plentiful grass. It was fun when the joeys came out of their mamma's pouches to play with me. We would race around the hill, sometimes slipping over on the soft ground. I liked it there, I really did. But mamma said we had to leave to find our herd. I whispered see you later to my beautiful clearing, I will be back. I just know it.

However, it was not until I was a mature stallion did I return to The Cascade Clearing. It had been many, many summers since I was a young colt, frolicking in the grass. Even before I reached my beautiful clearing, I could smell smoke. That meant only one thing. Man. I feared that the beauty of the surrounding bush would be destroyed by man and the destruction they store in their saddlebags, carried by their corrupted horses. But the colt still deep inside of me longingly hoped it had remained the same. But it had not. No longer my beautiful clearing, the gigantic trees that used to tower over me had been violently chopped down. The lush grass I used to spend many hours in had been taken over by yellowed, lifeless clumps. It was silent. I had not heard the chirping of birds in miles. Up on top of the pint-sized hill stood a rickety shack, with smoke billowing out the tiny chimney. As I hesitantly inched forward, smoke assaulting my nostrils, a lean dog standing on the hill begins to bark. Its ear-splitting cry rings through the bush, or what is left of it. The wooden door of the shack creaks open to reveal a typical bushman. A sound I have become too familiar with enters my ears. The loading of a shot gun. Thundering gunshots fill the air as I whip around to swiftly leave what once was my beautiful clearing. The sky, a murky mix of greys and dark blues, exactly how I feel inside. Dark and empty, for I have lost my beautiful clearing, to the destruction of man.