Evocations of Multispecies Justice

Abstract

Taralga RoadEarly spring, goldwattle lining the lanes, damsbrimming, fieldsemerald-greenand clotted with long-eared lambs, roaddeeply pot-holed from the winter rains,a cyclistcome a cropperbeing loaded into an ambulanceseven kilometers north of Kenmore.“Wombat”she announces just after Tarlo, and stops, gets out.I see her in the rearview mirrorturn the body overbefore walking quickly backfor gloves and a cloth from the first-aid kit. “She'sdead,” she says, “but there'sa tiny pawreaching from the pouch. I'vegot to check.” Across the road, twoyoung black steers, earsblue-tagged for slaughter,amble to the fence to watch, then othersand still more, a dozen, twenty, eyeswide in concern; if they weren'tanimals you'd almost think they knew her. Herbaby dead also, she tells me when she returns; paleand furless, barelyfilling the palm of her hand.Three kilometers later there's another. “Their pouchesare so wet,” she says, then speaksin awe of the size of their teeth.By Oberonthere have been two moreand almost a dozen roos. Somewe stop at, others you can just tellit's far too late; or there'sa truck on your tail, or the road's so narrowthere's no space to pull over,let alone any place to run.Near the turnoff to Jenolan, dusk coming on,we stop at a young swamp wallaby, headcrushed by a curb-side wheel, the roada single lane, then, ourexamination done, stepback to allow a four-wheel drive to pass, watchas it grinds her—eyes, ears, brain—even deeper into the gravel. Her joeywho'd beenstill breathingdies in our hands.