My street. My lonely, dirt, single lane street. With a cattle grid. And a cicada shell on the fence. It leads, well, anywhere you want really. It diverges at one point and you can choose which way to go. You could take the one less travelled as Robert Frost suggests. Or you can go off road if you want, make your own path when you hit the end of my street. Make your way up over the hills. Admire the sunset, then roll back down the hill to my street and kick stones as you make your way home.
It has a long history. If it could talk it would tell stories of bullocks and carts, milk in steel cans, swags, horseman, bushrangers, millions and millions of cattle, young families becoming old families.
It’s peaceful, strong, reliable and it has character and heart. I love my street. It’s fits me. If I was a street, this is the one I would be.