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The name forms on my tongue. The houses sprawl in the sun like camp dogs, curled up at the foot of the hills. Beneath them the land lies still, untouched by their presence. Are the souls of the people so? Stranger here, I cannot know.
I came just yesterday, following your stories and the wandering of my heart down the long track south from Kintore. The track wandered too, a fine brown thread amongst the dunes, tangled, yet weaving a pattern still, sewing sand hill and spinifex ever more tightly into the tattered fabric of my life.
I looked hard but found no message in the sand and, at last, both driver and driven, I arrived at this place. Now the face of the hill is turned towards me. The sun slips away at my back and, after all of this, all that I can see is your absence.
And I realise that the hills of Kaltukatjara became a part of me long before I saw them, and though those hills surround me now they are not what I see, for what I see now is what I saw from the start - the wind carved mountains of my heart.