Mike Stone's poem is only three short lines, but it paints a whole scene. A wide desert plain lies flooded with moonlight. In the middle of it stands a single eucalyptus, and instead of simply standing there, it "hoots," like an owl calling into the night. Far off, a mountain answers.
The speaker never says how they feel, but the poem seems quietly awed. Nothing is described as lonely or frightening, yet the emptiness of the plain and the lone tree make the setting feel vast and still. The surprise is that the tree and the mountain talk to each other, as if the landscape itself were alive and awake while no one is around. Whether the hoot is the wind in the leaves or a bird in the branches, the poem leaves open, which adds to the mystery.
The mood is hushed, dreamlike and a little magical. The gap between the lines, and the mountain's single-line reply, lets the silence stretch out the way an echo does across open ground.