4.30am — Clouds drift slowly across the darkened sky.
As dawn approaches, they move from black through many shades of grey,
Flecked with cream they turn pink like the plumage of a Galah.
With clouds like beanies pulled down about their ears
The mountains sit sombre In the half light of dawn.
The rain clouds are wreathed around like a filmy scarf, in and out the mountain hollows.
The single melancholy call of the Kookaburra breaks the stillness,
Gradually the bird song grows, as one by one
They join the morning chorus.
Now the light changes imperceptibly, slow and subtle, each moment becoming brighter.
The fresh breeze whisks down the mountain and through the trees,
To be followed by the drumming rain on the colour bond roof.
The Magpie Lark calls once and is silenced, and the rain comes faster,
The wind pushes it down the mountain, along the street,
The noise of the rain is louder and louder and the grey closes in.
The mountain is hidden behind a silvery curtain,
The soft blush of dawn retreats
The darkness returns.
There is no birdsong, only the relentless thrumming of the rain.
The rattle and clank of the rain from the overflowing gutters on the veranda,
The clatter against the tank, as the water rolls down its corrugated sides and onto the garden.
Lights flash through the window, as a car turns the corner,
And the slish of sound as the tyres hold the wet road.
It slithers sideways on the black bitumen.
The eerie echo of the Plovers alarm call , as their scrape nest is washed away.
As suddenly as it came the rain has gone,
The curtain of silver fades away.
Lorikeets’ chatter at the feeder, the light grows brighter.
The Black Cockatoos settle noisily in the banksias,
The branches are bowed under the weight of bird and rain.
The Kookaburras cackle again and so the day starts in the Hinterland.