Good day, young travelers. I am Wally the Wombat, old of paws, rooted like the rocks around me, keeper of memory and slow wisdom. I live under the vast sky, near the Great Red Rock, in land baked by sun and thirsting for rain.

I wander with my walking stick, gathering odd stones, strange feathers, bits of things others discard. I dance ancient dances when I must call for rain, when water becomes scarce, when the land cracks. Younger ones scoff sometimes — “Old Wally’s stick is useless,” they say. But they don’t see what I’ve seen: the sky’s whisper before a storm, the scent of earth after years without water, the patient turning of the moon over red stone.

Once, Joey, Jimmy, and Phoebe wasted water, played heedlessly under the sun. I warned them: each drop matters. They did not listen at first. Then the water was gone, the thirst real. Then they looked to me, and I taught them the dance, the ancient steps their elders once knew. The rain came, soft, welcome, forgiving.

I offer you not speed or glitter, but steady lessons, rooted in land and time. I will show you that what’s old can be precious, that knowledge arises from watching, waiting, respecting. If you walk with me, I’ll share stories under red rock skies, teach you to read the land, to hear what the thirsty ground says.

Because wisdom is not in shouting, but in silence, attention, kindness. And though I’m old, my heart still pulses with hope.