Summer in this part of the world has a particular soundtrack.
There is the click and ticks of the cicadas. The percussive rhythm that gives the heartbeat to the days of summer. There are the intermittent melodies of birds visiting the garden. The embellishments to the audible tapestry . . . infrequent squeals of kids playing in the park, the buzz of a motorcycle climbing up a hilly road, a simple dog bark or the beep of a car horn. A noisy flock of galahs, or lorikeets, or black cockatoos passing overhead.
There are driving surges of trucks accelerating along a road or the more gentle, lower frequency sounds of a street sweeper or the penetrating crashing of waves at the beach in the distance. The early morning swishing of dancing sprinklers at the park or the spraying of garden hoses. The dissident, sweeping woosh of the black easterlies as they slip through the air. Clean and warm and sucking every ounce of moisture out of the garden that they possibly can. And then continuing on and on.
And always. . .
Somewhere in the background. . .
In a passing car, or Gran’s bedroom, or on a spare tv or radio . . .
Is the commentary of the cricket games.
After a brief spell stepping back from the garden it is nearly time to start back into it and take it to the next level. The black easterlies have been strong and persistent. And I’m going to say that in my opinion, they are also early this year.
In retrospect, we’ve had it good the last couple of years. So I guess they are making up for it – and our garden is doing very poorly defending itself. Its also possible that the warm weather will continue for another two, maybe even three months yet. We’ll have to wait and see.
Petit Paradis 