Balanced haphazardly upon off-cuts from a Cherywood tree which was cut up the summer past, a small white motion-detection camera clumsily frames a bush-track which runs along the lower perimeter of my home in Sherbrooke. Trampled leaves, wombat scat, flattened grasses and partings in the ferns give sign of a passage for the critters which inhabit the cold-climate rainforest of the Dandenong Ranges.

When the camera arrived in the post came with the default name Intruder Cam. At first, the camera was a way of glimpsing into the night, to keep an eye out for foxes in an attempt to keep our flock of chickens safe. The placement of the camera, which might occasionally be inspected by possum, tethered to a spider web or nudged by a curious wallaby, continues to surprise me with a moments which are equal-parts serendipitous and sublime.

As the footage from Intruder Cam has continued to accumulate over the past year, I see the cycles of the seasons. I question what it means to be an intruder and what it means for me to photograph it. Alongside our resident wombat (Nugs), brushy-tailed possums and a variety of birds I also see red-foxes, rats, feral cats and the occasional sambar deer emerge out of the darkness, blinking with glowing eyes like a vision from a dream, aestheticised further through the cold gaze of Intruder Cam. These animals are the cause of severe ecological damage to this country which I care for deeply. Whilst being a safe-passage for native animals, it is a hunting hunting ground for others.

As the habitat for these animals shrinks and the human footprint continues to swell I see this reflected back in Intruder Cam.