Not far from where I live the land rises up in a series of hills. They huddle together along the Eastern horizon, swathed in trees and dotted with houses that perch precariously. Each morning the sun breaks over the hills and casts its bright morning light over the plains of the city. The hills hold a certain mystery, an aura of permanence. The hills watch and wait. In the hills, the earth is still strong.
One hill stands out from its sisters. You can see it easily from the airport, 15 kilometres away, for it is a bare hill – a Brownhill. It rears up at the head of the hilly belt. A single dirt track can be seen winding up from the circle of eucalypts that thin out a quarter of the way up. Straggly bushes and windblown acacias grow here and there.
In the warm months, from October to March, the hill is a dusty brown, dried up by the fierce sun. In the cooler months, grass shoots up and green flushes across the hill. Occasionally you can hear the muffled moos of cows that still graze on the hill, but mainly the animals there are birds. Crows and magpies swoop, sing and swagger. This is their patch.
Brownhill does look bare, but if you stand at a distance you will see that it is crowned by a single tree. It sits proudly at the top of the hill, perhaps 10 metres tall, and plays host to a variety of birds throughout the day. From afar it looks just like broccoli with its sturdy trunk and densely bunched branches. Through beating sun, lashing rain and roaring wind, the broccoli tree stands atop Brownhill, steadfast in its lofty position, watching the world go by.
The Wordy Way 