The trees twitch dimly in the soft splats of rain as I walk. They quieten then quiver afresh in the slight breeze. The weather, one moment cloudy and the next bright. The sun comes and goes, a raw strong yellow, framing the edges of buildings and streets. Trees on the street overhang and I listen to the high-up sound of rustling. There is a smell in the air of eucalpt and of rich earth, a damp enduring smell. Earth dreams and air dreams. The light wind fills the air like waves on an empty shore and a gust drives a piece of paper skidding and flapping across the street and then high into the air to hang for seconds before falling damply to earth.

I listen to the sound of rain slicing down through the tired warm air, lightly spattering on the ground as I continue to walk breathing the smell of grassiness and the old unchanged odour of growth. I take in the shapes of trees and the tint of flowers as the sun continually strains through the clouds shining brightly on puddles, beating them into countless curls of light, all moving and flashing.

The creek flows muddily. Beyond the foresounds of the splash of water, the twittering sparrows and carolling magapies a heavy thrull, a nearly unheard roar of traffic gridning along the freeway, like the sea on some far shore.