Autumn
I think of the day ahead and the likelihood it will feel the same as this, warm on one side, cool on the other.
After weeks of dry, there’s rain. Ten to fifteen millimetres is forecast, a richness! When it comes, the colours in the garden suddenly saturate. Earth and plants go from dusty to rinsed clean and shining in a matter of moments.
The skies lower a curtain down over the ridge at the end of our road. Trees there become indistinct in the grey. The bark of trees in the bush block is streaked darker, black for the wattles, rich red brown for one or two of the gums. There is no wind so the trees simply hang limp in the downpour as if stunned.
Droplets bounce from the road and concrete pads around the house. The noise of nature changes everything. Thunder rumbles darkly over the hills. Closer to, it is all patter on the rooftops and trickling and gushing through gutters and downpipes. Crickets still beat out their rapid cry, and frogs, the two indistinguishable to my ears. Cars now swish as well a roar along. Kookaburras in the wet treetops give the occasional defiant cry as if to laugh off the new conditions.
The next morning I have the dog on her lead ready for a walk along the road while the shade lasts. At the last minute, I decide to take the verge track, and we swerve, scrambling up the bank at the side of the road and heading between the trees and the fence where the track lies waiting. With the rain, the season is slowly turning. There’s a cool freshness in the air and the ground is still wet. I’m banking on the snakes not being out yet, not until later when it’s warmer and drier. I stamp to warn them I’m coming, just in case. The track is quiet and my footfall are softer after the rain.
The dog runs ahead, oblivious, happy to be here where the smells are so plentiful. She sniffs undisturbed. There is less birdsong around us. Many birds are gone, their job for the year done, their families raised and their nests abandoned. At the far end of the path, a small flock erupts, ten of them, from the radiata pines in my neighbours’ paddock, abandoning perches and hope as I approach. I’m as shocked as the are, the explosion of rapidly flapping wings and a feathery brown blur of flight makes me jump and exclaim out loud to the empty morning air. I’m not sure what they are: fan-tailed cuckoos perhaps?
As I walk, the morning sun warms my arm, the one turned towards it, while the other stays cold. It’s an odd feeling, this sensate division. I think of the day ahead and the likelihood it will feel the same: warm on the one side, cool on the other. We can’t always be turned towards the light, but it’s comforting to feel it on some part of our being.
Excerpted from Edge of the World, a work-in-progress. For more writing, please subscribe! Or check out my books.