5 January 2015

Last night the chooks were dawdling to bed, having a last peck at the feed, a last sip at the water, when I felt something behind me and turned to see the moon, just above the hill, a creamy-yellow disc surrounded by a bright yellow haze, edged with a thin circle of red trim. Slowly it made its ascent into the night sky, amazing all around with its magnificence.

Tonight it is much later, and we sit in darkness as we eat our dinner, bombarded by grasshoppers. A pale line of light forms along the top of the hill but still the moon waits. A cloud above the hill is lit from below. A tiny edge of brightness rises and suddenly the whole moon is there, veiled.

Behind us the bleating frog bleats. Now that I’ve seen him – he sits on the edge of the water trough, calling out to any waiting female bleating frogs – I feel I owe him an apology for my harsh words last week. He’s a sturdy little fellow, maybe 5 cm long, identifiably male from the glimpses of a lemon-yellow underbelly at his armpits and tops of his legs. His long back is a greeny-brown, and his toes end in fat round tips. He is a definite benefit, his beauty less showy than the moon’s but no less remarkable.