“And all at once, summer collapsed into fall” - Oscar Wilde
The sun sends shards of golden light through the windows that face out of the living room of the homestead toward the stone barn, standing since 1852, a decade longer than the house, and the gums beyond, some of them standing longer still, I suspect, breaking up the light as it ascends behind them. I open up the vent on the fire place and watch the embers aglow the instant that tiny breath of oxygen enters and a new fire is made of two logs left smouldering from the night before. I lay a hefty piece of wood on top and listen to the crackle, as I wait for it to take the edge off the room I catch movement out of the corner of my eye outside the window nearest the old crooked mulberry.
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