It is early and the bush is quiet. Time unties itself. A lyrebird scratches, turns over leaf litter, shifts, scratches again. Its plume catches the light, feathers shining in the morning sun. Drops of rain shiver on green before drying out and fading away. Colourless light glistens through trees, opens, closes. Everywhere and everything is alive but there is hardness running under it too, an edge. Nothing will break here, not like that anyway. The lyrebird shuffles, foraging, methodical and focused. The world spreads out; there is movement above the bird and movement beneath. Bark swirls, trees widen, and patterns unfurl, the shape of the forest shifting as the lyrebird works. There is silence. The lyrebird pauses; a burst of sound. Music echoes, filtering through the trees. Like the day, it is ever changing. There are so many ways to branch out, to come undone. Later when night arrives, it will be heavy, solid, open in its own way. The lyrebird will rest, still and silent. In and out, the bush will breathe. The bush is always breathing.