This morning the mountains are a dusky blue, their curves accentuated by shadows. A low cap of softness, like smoke, hovers over the ridgeline of the Hawkduns, some of it wisps into the gullies.
On Mt Ida the cloud hugs tight, hiding the peaks. The cloud grey-blue underneath and on top the newly risen sun lays a brightness that promises heat and a sky- blue day. In the willows, the sparrows and starlings chitter and sing. There are magpies ardling and oodling in the pines beside the cricket ground. No other sound but birds. No frost either.
The long blades of grass on the edge of the paddock beaded with dew though the tall spires of seed heads, the timothy and cocksfoot, are dry and quiver in the early breeze. Already small insects stir.
Far away, against the blue flanks of the Hawkduns, a flock of ducks. I hear them honk before I see them, the sun catching their wings in flashes of light. Perhaps all over the world the insects and birds are like this – filling the space of sky with their song and their flickering.
It is humbling, and just, to think that while we falter, the wider community of land and air and creatures, to which we have always belonged, grows stronger.