Old man river

One of the state’s coolest, wettest summers has drawn to a close and autumn has taken over. Everything’s in the last flush of growing and ripening: this choko vine on Boreas Road will soon have taken over the entire bus stop.

It took until the very end of February but we did eventually have a few hot days. I wouldn’t call them stinkers but they were dank enough to need a fan in the bedroom one night. But by the time the Knights were hosting the Broncos the change had already started pushing through. As I walked along the creek towards Broadmeadow at dusk a cool gust came at me downstream, pushing with it a squall of dried-out leaves. They looked like rats or mice in the half light and the noise of them rolling against the concrete sounded like thousands of tiny clawed feet. Creepy.

The slasher’s been through the gasworks again. I normally like the long grass but at this time of year I’m also aware of, as my late father-in-law would have described them, the old Joe Blakes. Closed in shoes and long pants for me, whatever the weather!

On the plus side the slasher makes things visible that were hidden before. But there’s always a minus side: this blue-tongue was starting to pong by Saturday afternoon.

Beyond the pong stage was this dead bird I found on the roof when doing a gutter check. It had one green and one white plastic band but they weren’t proper birding bands, which are metal and numbered. The photo’s been popped off to the Hunter Bird Observers Club to see if they can identify it for me.

And so back to the creek. The flush has cleaned it out again; there was just this lonely soccer ball bobbing around by the Chaucer Street drain. But I know that, even as I’m writing this, it’ll be filling up again. Like the seasons, that river just keeps on rolling along.

Hmm. Is that a song?

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