The colours, vivid and exaggerated like a cartoon, yet somehow capturing the essence of a scorching, arid day on the farm. I'd ride the quad bike along the dam banks, relishing in the perfect blend of blood-red and orange dirt. The dust would coat the sheep, transforming their natural appearance into something strikingly different. Still water, a mirror carefully placed, occasionally held the presence of lifeless creatures. Beauty and cruelty, entwined in a single glance.

Patches of green were rare, mostly replaced by a swirling haze of dust. This painting, though generous, hinted at the assumption of decent rainfall. Sheepishly, I approached the flock, hoping for a conversation beyond their monotonous ba-ba-baaa. Unsuccessful every time, yet it remained one of my favourite pastimes when alone with them. Once the sheep were guided into their designated paddock, I embarked on the 5-kilometre ride back to the homestead. Dusk often draped my memories of those moments. I'd sing at the top of my lungs, avoiding inhaling insects whenever possible, manoeuvring the road's indentations and rocks at a swift 80 kilometres per hour. No helmet, just the rush of wind, melodies echoing through the air, and the fresh scents of wild daisies, hay, and cow poo.

During those journeys homeward, my imagination would sometimes take flight, envisioning myself in a horse-drawn buggy, desperately fleeing hostile gunfire erupting from the mountains.