Autumn into winter

 It is mushroom season again.

But don't eat them. As if you would.

 I like the sounds of Sunday morning here. The birds start the noise. Just before dawn you can sometimes hear a kookaburra. Then the currawongs start to whistle. The magpies come next, warbling to the sunrise. And after the sun is up, the lorikeets squeal with joy to be out in the flowering trees on such a morning. By the time the lorikeets are up, you can hear the trams rumbling up the road on the other side of the apartment. A dog barks. And even later, the shouts of soccer players as the Sunday morning crowd takes over the field closest to the window.

In the living room, the heater has come on. There is a warm glow and a soft rumble. The laundry is dry on the racks set up over the living room rug. Smells of toast from the kitchen. Later, baking and cinnamon as this week's batch of granola turns golden in the oven. 

We walk around the botanic gardens in the sunshine. The water is a mirror to the autumn sky. 

The city stretches its fingers against the horizon. A carpet of grass, green with the incoming winter rains, runs to meet it in the distance.

Here, the world is turning. Day, night, day, night. Another summer come and gone. Such a small tilt of the earth, to put such a chill in the morning air. Mist against the grass. Brown leaves carpeting the sidewalk. 

Sunday morning. Late autumn.