Huevember.
Another challenge month. This month I plan to tell a few stories with my illustration from my home. Not all stories are mine, or mine to tell as they belong to the indigenous community and those I'll be sure to note clearly. How ever this first illustration is a story I can tell.

My Great Grandfather passed away 2 years ago in a few months. It still hurts a lot, but one of the things I'd like to share about him was one of his stories. Before he passed he told me so many and many that he wanted to share with others. I am going to try and honour that and tell you all a little of one of my favourite stories from when I was very young.

One day in the bush by a billabong, there was an awfully loud sound.

A crash. A boom. A bang.

Birds flew, frogs hooped and even the fish in the still water swam low as the streaming comet crashed at the waters edge.

After all the squawking and cracking died away the bush became almost silent.

All but the sound of soft crying. It was a sad crying, a lonely crying.

A crying that drew the attention of the old kookaburra who hadn't moved from his perch in all the commotion.

The old bird swayed, his grey wings spreading before he took flight. Making his wayward way to the smoldering site of the crying sound.

With a few extra flaps of his worn out wings, the old kookaburra parted the smoke, and there in a pile cried a baby silver koala.

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