Morning Mob

As I stepped out the fresh air was filled with morning rain. My nostrils sucked it in and held the very essence of new life as the tiny rain particles fell to the arid earth, where they would renew all doubt.


I tilted my akurba at the magpies, a sign a respect to their morning song. A wonderfully relaxing and homeward bound feeling as they cooed the morning bush opera.


My stride was matched with three excited dogs. They leapt around me like a circus ride. Their anticipation was frenzied.


The smell of old leather waved past me as I opened the stable door. A greeting of happiness sounded from the far end of the box.


He was an old gelding, of thoroughbred blood. His legs ran the race course but his heart never past the post.


I settled myself in the saddle and the old gelding pranced his feet. I slightly shifted my weight forward and the old gelding eased into his stride.


As we cantered effortlessly across the arid paddocks, the dogs anticipation grew wildly with every stride.


Coming to a slight incline I reined the old gelding in. There over in the distance was the greatest site I'd ever seen.


A mob five thousand strong, grazed eagerly on irrigated pasture. They looked at me with intent, but with the crack of my stockwhip they herded in a rush.


The dogs let loose their frenzy and kept over on the flank and the old gelding and I bought up the rear.


In the early hours of the morn you can hear the crack of leather and look to the west and see the mob rise over the hill. Headed to the long yard, a shearer's stand waits.