November 22 2014

For the last two Fridays we’ve been kept inside by the heavy hand of a hot day. A peaceful morning of lemon sun and bright birdsong gives way to the monotony of bellbirds. Leaves beaten dry clack in the wind.

As the last arcs of the sun fall behind the western hills we venture out, sitting on the eastern side of the house in a cool breeze. Last week a cloud of white ants flew into the air from an old tree stump, shining specks of light catching the last rays. They scattered through the air, flying with abandon, crashing into us and the trees and the ground. The chooks pecked avidly at every log they landed on. To the south a great grey streak of cloud splashed the sky. Trees on horizons turned black on grey-green hills.

When the night is completely dark the soft air hugs our bodies. First stars come shyly through the blackness.