Situated on our rural property near Mansfield lie the foundation stones of an original bluestone rabbiters hut which was built between 1830 and 1870. Its history is long forgotten, gone with little trace and it leaves me with an aching sense of loss. Three trees planted behind the hut still stand sentinel and dog roses run rampant nearby. I stand and listen to the wind crooning in the trees and think of bygone days when others would have stood in this same spot looking at the early morning fog blanketing the world far below, hearing the songs of birds on the morning breeze and the tok-tok-tok of the frogs from the nearby spring. Strung between the branches of a tree, hang spider webs that, having caught the dew drops, shimmer like starry nets, refracting the light, now glinting like diamonds. The dew, so eye-catching on the webs, is cold and clammy on the skin. Motes of sunlight break though the curling white vapors of fog. Trees seem to be floating free of the ground, suspended on a sea of pale cloud. Something huge can be heard thumping over the ground. Like a gigantic monster it appears out of the fog, jumping the fence and shooting across my line of sight before disappearing amongst the trees. A kangaroo. A ragged line of ducks wing their way across the landscape. Magpies warble their strangely poignant calls. I close my damp notebook wondering if I have captured in words a moment in time …