It is a chilly, windless morning with a soft feathery feeling in the air: mist, yet so fine floats. It clings to everything; the grass looks bowed down by it and the trees look cobwebbed by it, their leaves dark and glossy drip jewels. The mist, so eye-catching on the glittering cobwebs, is cold and clammy on the skin. The mist becomes a mysterious inland sea, lapping at ones feet, the trees above, mist below wreathing amonst the houses and trees.

It becomes a golden June morning, the faint haze of sun above, and in the hollows of the valley mist lies. There is a smell of frost in the air but none properly in the ground yet, and the two small oak trees still hold their yellow leaves. Flying low overhead, their wings outstretched a flight of screaming cockatoos disturb the silence.

In the tree tops, magpies warble their strange poignant bell-calls. The distant hills stretch for miles. Lofty and tangled woods traverse the hillsides reaching towards Mount Buller.