Dawn, and two stars hang beside a daylight moon. The pendulum shifts, and I can almost guess the time by the light. The potted magnolia on the balcony gives it, the light and dark of its leaves. The ghost gums at the edge of the path throw down shadows onto the loden field. Under the smoke and ash coloured bark the gums are rife with incarnate lives, regenerate deaths, petite remains. At the root of the conifers, hardened spur-sharp branches lay in a stack and become a nesting ground, a harvest of tiny worlds. An abundance. The wind here is a current of pollen and spore, fodder for the germinant dust. So too the elaborate entrails of earth; seed-sprout, weed and bloom, wind-tossed flowerheads and manifest wings. The thread of the seasons is a yarn of ruin and renewal, ruin and renewal. A clockwork of dead wood and surrogate shoots, a lineage. The knotted stem in a common root, or the course the sun takes on its passage to dusk, the one under selfsame stars.