Soon it will be mid year. Soon the shortest day, short time. Time running, running fast.

The dew turns to frost around here. The boardwalk is frozen silver - still the birds flit - their wings crisper in the frosted air. The wind brushes through the mountains, the pigs are silent, everything is utterly itself - and I the beholder.

The ducks cry across the valley - mallard and paradise. Milton’s world is here. Oh if I could paint a scene of it - you would marvel with me.

Light breaks the mountains and alights upon the garden. Oranges, reds on trees, the green evanescence glows. And the pines on our south face stand still and sturdy - watching, waiting for their day - when the east wind comes for them and they drop their needles likes showers across the paddocks.

Wonder takes over now - it is a picture pretty - with the chooks murmuring for their breakfast and the pigs waiting, strangely still.