Liminal Ground

Sometimes the quietest places are the easiest to overlook.

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It’s a place most people walk past — a grassy depression with a view of a deserted sports field. The campus is large — there’s a lake, well-manicured quadrangles, and cafes. But I like it here. It’s quiet.

The huge Moreton Bay Fig trees cast a deep shadow on the grass, and the air is still. Birdsong rings out, a peaceful counterpoint to the people-sounds, the city-sounds of the broader campus. It’s hardly comfortable, but I’m content to sit on the grass and eat something between classes.

This summer, the nesting magpies had two chicks. They were very curious and flew down from the tree to investigate while their parents supervised, a few paces back. They seemed quite relaxed, so had already decided I was safe.

Since I was eating, I shared my lunch with them, and they hung around for a while, hopping on the grass, tilting their heads, bird-fashion, side-on. I got to my feet, slowly and carefully, and started to walk. I wanted to stay, but it was time to go. I haven’t been back.

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If you liked this, you might also enjoy Predawn Rowers and The Oars, Forgotten.