It started with the inquisitive black one chasing my canoe. I thought it was a water-dragon until it stood, cobra-like, above the water.
I swear, my heart temporarily stopped.
On hikes, they were everywhere; gleaming red-bellied-blacks on the sand; striped tigers in the leaf litter; coppery browns laid out on bitumen.
Silent, beady-eyed, cold-blooded terrorists.
I can’t walk through long grass. Can’t breathe near a river’s edge. Need industrial-strength boots and gaiters.
They’re always there, ready to sink their fangs in a glancing blow.
Perhaps I should move to New Zealand.