The mountains are still;

Not a soul to be seen among the brush.

There are no cars,

No bustle of civilisation.

The bush is alive with movement, but peaceful all the same.

A small breeze rustling leaves the only sound.

Small birds flit to and thro,

Their wings beating silently.

A flash of black and white brushes past a stunted tree,

And the brumbies come into view.

They stroll quietly through the brush, picking their paths wisely.

A herd gathers at a trickling stream to drink.

Birds start to crowd, too, gathered by the beating of hooves.

The mountains are alone in the heat,

Their glory preserved by the lack of visitors,

Leaving the wildlife to flourish under the watchful gaze of Mother Nature.