There was fog again this morning. Skeins of flies were huddling
lethargically under the eaves trying to find some scrap of warmth. The sun
hit them and they were off into their last ephemeral mating, desperate and
clinging. A host of wagtails grow fat chittering as they gorge. The hum of
the bees on the cassia is audible inside the house. If any more come they
had better randomise their movements or it will take off .

The bats will leave soon and so leave my pomes in peace. The mulberry trees
are pulling back into themselves and starting to look ragged. The melons
still on the vine may ripen or not but the citrus are still pumping their
fruit full of juice. Gaudy pink and grey pumpkins have been marshalled into
heavy regiments on the verandah guarded by ratsak.

Struggling tomato plants have given way to bare earth waiting for broad
beans and snap peas to emerge. The ripe tomatoes must be turned to paste
before they rot and the rest into green jam.

The pasture is lush from steady late summer rain and the horses are
dutifully fat enough to get through winter. Except for the old girl who
isn't going to make it. She comes each morning and nickers for extra feed,
I give it to her but we both know it will do no good.

The seasons turn.

David