The end of a Spring day when the sun is still setting north of west brings the last of the light low over my ridge’s shoulder.
It finds the far escarpment and paints it gold.
The wallabies have been in clover — literally — as Spring has sprung with flushes of flowers on welcome plants and weeds alike.
Birds arrive that I have not regularly seen here, to feed on blossoms and seed heads. Lorikeets hang upside-down in the callistemons, galahs waddlle through the yet unmown grass, beaks full of booty.
Under the verandah roof the swallows are nestbuilding, perhaps even eggsitting by now, so this hopeful kookaburra keeps perching on the nearest star post.
The swallow parents divebomb his head relentlessly; he just keeps ducking. When they occasionally connect, he flinches, wobbles slightly, refluffs his feathers — and stays put.