As befits a hazy, hot Sunday afternoon I am drifting lazily in my hammock, inhaling the sickly perfection of sun warmed jasmine and pork belly crisping in the oven. The lightest of breezes has come to play this afternoon and the three musketeers are giggling on the swings as it dances around.
We went to the mountains today, wending through the forests to curl up on a mat of green and chase away scrub turkeys and pademelons and eat breadrolls and drink juice out of plastic cups. Listening for the whip birds and gazing up at the pastel hued, dusty sky. Found lace-like fairy wings and touched trees older than European civilisation in Australia, marveling at the beauty and wisdom and the beautiful green life that zinged through my fingertips.
The Possum insisted on walking (and sometimes running) through the forest. Keen to see and touch and smell everything for himself. Until his little legs, suddenly all stretched out in his shorts, became tired and after yet another adventure off the path and sliding down the slope panicked, he was hoisted onto his Daddy's shoulders.
The girls bickered as is custom, but mostly lost themselves to the trees. Sometimes insisting on holding my hands and asking why. Why Mummy. Why do you love the trees? While I smiled and asked why not. Which didn't satisfy them at all, but left me to my musings of climbing the strangler figs to see the view from the top surrounded by shy whip birds.
And now we're home and the mosquitos are feasting on the masses of pale flesh bared to the breeze while I lazily swat them away. Scratching absent mindedly at the spot on my thigh that I neglected longest and swinging gently in the breeze.