Skink Hour

Jess Miller

It’s 9am, next door the chainsaws and angle grinders are humming. I know this as I sit metres away at my table in my bedroom, where you can find me approximately 22 hours a day. 20-odd years to grow, and less than 20 minutes to destroy, the tree has been cut down to make way for a reno, rear access driveway and ‘entertainment area’. It’s a sad day.

It’s 1.15pm. The Sun arches over the meridian of my street and peeks over the fence. I put my hand to the window and feel the slow heat coming through. I take my coffee outside and wait for the rustling of phantoms amid the Boston ivy that are slowing making their reclamations over the fence.

One, two – four. The lounge of lizards emerges but seem anything but relaxed. The skittish movement of skinks reflect the anxiety of the day. Unsure whether to run away, or stay and hope they won’t be noticed. The warmth of the sun entices them out as I mourn the loss of the tree, they welcome the light in.