Lake George. Mirror-lake, Unmarred. Utopia doubled in its reflection. Fluffy clouds in duplicate. A twinned line of white wind turbines. Black swans swimming in the sky.

Billilingra Rolling hills in variegated green, All the lush softness of the rainy season. The sun breaking through low-hanging clouds at dusk, bathing the landscape in creamy yellow light. Along the endless line of the road, We exist in widescreen cinema. A streak of pines dips dark green across the folds and valleys. Cows and sheep are scattered like dark seeds. "Cows!" "Sheep!" we say whenever we spot them, struck anew with delight every time.

Kosciuszko The land is harsh here. Fat black flies, the shadows of tiny fish, a lonely raven taking wing, sedges and brown grass bent in the dirt. No other signs of life, except for us, Huffing and panting down the trail. Rocks jut out of the ground in unearthly clusters, A tumult of clouds mirrors them overhead. "Our own stonehenge," my friend says. An extraterrestrial panorama pockmarked with little ponds.