I woke this morning to the liquid warbles of currawong, then a full chorus of kookaburras amongst the peeps, howls and screeches of abundant local wildlife – even whip birds. I pick small beetles out of my morning coffee, and wonder what is slithering as I pass bushes. You’ll never walk alone here.
Best of all, it is so thoroughly rural. I drive past fields of calves, some cows, but with ducks, hens and small egrets – all the ibis of January seem to have left. Wollumbin was poking through a doughnut of cloud, with dark forest below.
I have not been idle, though I am crucified with guilt that I am not sewing! I know I am useful though, and my mum is doing well thank you for asking, though if I make her laugh her staples hurt. Home is coping without me very-well-thank-you, so at night I read Barbara Pym without a cloud on my conscience. I have passing thoughts on the meaning of all this, the timing, the synchronicity, and blow me if I can find logic or reason. It just is.