At the end of the afternoon walk with Mikaela we crest the last hill of the driveway and the house comes into view framed by trees.  And my heart swells.

Whether the day has been good, bad or indifferent, coming home always lifts my spirits.  There are the aviaries with the birds either observing the last of the light or already ensconed on their night perches.  There is Matisse, sitting on the deck, safe behind cat netting, waiting impatiently for me to come and make his dinner.  There are the silhouettes, as I walk across the concrete to the shed, of the gums and banaglow palms against the blacker silhouettes of the Two Sisters, Mount Uki and, partially obscured by a rank of gums, Mt. Nullum.  There is the evening star, a bright puncture in the dim dusk.

Later, sitting in the rocker on deck with a glass of red, I watch the mircobats hunt moths.  If it's very quiet, and it usually is, I can hear their wings as they flutter past, those strange flesh wings stretched across goassamer bones.  Other stars emerge, even as the last purple limns the mountains.  There is a late car coming home, a cone of light sliding past distant trees.  A cow lows on the hillside across the valley.  A dog barks.  A night bird warbles.  Frogs and crickets brrrr and click. 

I stop rocking and just be until the cold - or the first mosquito - forces me inside. 

Still, from crest of hill to rocker, however the day has gone, I am made whole again. 

And I am so so grateful.