Dear Mum

I just found a little lonely blue feather under a pine tree on a nine-hole golf course just outside of Melbourne.

We’re here for a friend’s 30th birthday and hunting mushrooms in the dark, damp needle beds—Slippery Jacks. Toadstools. And irregular growths that bruise easily.

Too few and nothing happens, too many and everything can happen, all at once.

Today we’ll hit balls around the property. Fuzzy yellow ones, and small, hard, pockmarked ones.

That’s before we stay up all night and then play musical beds all morning.

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