“They try to fence me,” he whispered. “They plant wheat where I want spinifex. They build cities on river plains that I have taught, for sixty thousand years, are only loaned by the flood.”
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He sighed, and a hot, northerly wind—a genuine Bradfield —scoured the plains below, lifting a million tons of topsoil into a rust-colored haze. “I am not two things. I am a single, violent act of balance.” “They try to fence me,” he whispered