The sun was past its zenith, sinking toward a wintry horizon. It threw a pale gleam over the distant hills casting a play of light and shadow. Through a frayed rent in the clouds a crescent moon rode like a ghostly canoe, translucent. A flock of screaming cockatoos crossed the sky. Their cries, echoed and re-echoed. The last echo of their screams hung over the valley as their cries passed into the distance and tranquility returned. Nothing reached my ears but the fading staccato plaint of magpies on the wing, the sough of the wind bending the long grasses until their tops almost kissed the ground. When the red sun sank into the mists on the edge of the world the horizon was singed brownish orange, fading to the palest pink, blending to dilute, ethereal blue, which in turn shaded gradually to the deep, rich hue of the night sky overhead. Birds uttered uneasy, sporadic sounds from the trees as darkness settled over the land.