Alone and Close

On the creatures that take up residence in your attention

Jul 05, 2026

A slow start this morning. The sun well and truly up in the sky when I rise.

Stepping out on to my verandah, a figure rises its head and looks up at me from the other side of the fence, barely 10 metres away.

It is a huge dark kangaroo, not like the smaller grey kangaroos we are used to seeing here. His coat uniformly black. His face shorter and broader. Something different about his tail, thicker and more muscular than most. (I find out later he is a Wallaroo).

We examine each other for moments, until he stands up fully, pivots and hops effortlessly away.

I collect my compost bucket from under the sink, flick the kettle on, and walk the 30 metres down the ramp from the back door to my garden. There he is again, grazing on the grass made green by recent rain and the garden’s summer watering.

He surveys me longer this time, giving me the opportunity to see him properly before he bounds off to a safe distance under a stand of gum trees. He turns to observe me again from there.

Still.

Watchful.

I’ve seen him before, always solitary. Sometimes by the creek during the day. Often appearing before us in the headlights on an evening return home. Alone.

I wonder where his mob are. Why he doesn’t have a mate. I assume it’s a he.

I want to ask him these things. I want to know why he is drawn to our house. If he is called to stay here, waiting for others to return. Did he come here on purpose? Has his kind always been here, now dwindled away to just him?

It isn’t the first time a creature has taken up residence here.

Last spring, two swallows built a tiny mud nest on the beam of the verandah, right outside my door.

They worked with quiet purpose, sealing their small world together in pellets of mud and dry grass. The pair sat on their eggs until they hatched and then, in a matter of days, three wide open mouths appeared over the edge of the nest. They looked like someone else’s babies with their huge mouths, flipped open larger than their heads.

They peeped at first, then this became a squawk that escalated whenever their parents approached, bringing back morsels to feed the hungry brood.

Within the month, the little swallow family lined up on the beam beside their nest and just like that, they flew.

Out from under the verandah and onto the powerlines beyond. Catching their tiny breaths before they tested their wings again and flew about the garden, diving and gliding. Three smaller variations of their parents’ shape.

The swallows still dip and weave in and out from under the verandah. Like two little fighter jets. I watch them from my chair each morning.

One evening I turned on the verandah light. The swallows, disoriented by the sudden brightness, flew from the beam they rested on, flapping about, lost.

The cats recognised their distress and in one leaping arc, the grey cat caught a tiny swallow in her razor-sharp claws

It was dead by the time I reached it.

I picked it up with the greatest care and held its shimmering form in the palm of my hand. It was delicate and so soft. Its tiny eyes closed gently, its beautiful plumage laid out underneath it. Delicate straw like feet curled up into its undercarriage.

The cat was disinterested. Her eyes, only seconds ago wide and black were half-closed now. She sat cleaning the underside of her paws, tucked into a grey ball of fluff.

Cats will be cats. Hunting machines. Built for speed. Armed to kill.

I voiced an apology to the swallow. Told her I was sorry for the cat. That she was beautiful. I brought her to the compost heap and laid her to rest.

I ponder all of this as I move up and down the rows of the garden, pulling up blades of grass growing on the pathways. Popping a summer-ripe tomato in my mouth. Clipping chillis between my fingers and storing them in the pockets of my dressing gown. Building up the soil around my tiny brassicas.

There may be broccoli, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts by Christmas.

There is something heavy in my heart thinking about this kangaroo.

I straighten and look to where he was. He has gone. I look for him under the trees and further afield on the flats but he has gone.

My coffee awaits.

I return to the house, my pockets full but an unease in my chest.