Spring...

Yesterday the equinoxial winds were barrelling down the hills towards the lake which lay yet unruffled at the foot of Stillwaters. The cabbage trees and weeping willows stood firm, and mother ducks shepherded their babies into the leafy shelters to wait out the weather. The ducklings are young enough to take themselves lightly - any alarm sends them racing across the surface of the water like triathletes eager for the best swim start. One group of nine ducklings in their yellow and brown racing suits shimmied through the red water fern barely getting their feathers wet as their mother followed them under the leafy veil of a willow. Safe again...

The wind dipped lower, the leaves of the cabbage trees clacked together, still dry from winter's drought. The willows danced in their new green finery, they had been bare sticks a month ago.

A solitary dab chick swam like an Egyptian, its head nodding forward and back as it winched itself across the ruffled water.

Californian quail motored down the path beside the lake. Their quaint brown dress-coats barely moving as their wind-up feet flew across the newly mown track. I disturbed a nesting golden pheasant who flew from beneath my feet with a plaintive rusty-duck alarm call.

Phil the goat (full name Felicia-jolly-good-go-at) pulled at her chain and dragged her hut a centimetre closer to me as I sat on the grass. Phil is losing her winter coat and looks straggly and unloved. I pulled some of her old coat out, and it flew like candy floss on the freshening wind towards the lake. Perhaps it will appear woven into a soft warm nest next season.

The early evening light illuminated the still waters that give our place its name, as the lake become darker and more alive, churning and chasing the bird life from the centre of the water towards nests and shelter.

Coffee called, and I rose to return to my home through the trees. A triple line of blackwoods form a cathedral trail back along the foot of the lake. An old birdnest cartwheeled across the floor - pefectly constructed and sadly empty. The swallows in the trees squeaked their protest at my intrusion, and a pair of nesting magpies gargled nastily.

The golden night light picked out the contours of the surrounding hills, and lit the tops of grasses being thrashed by the wind. Each grass tipped by a tiny fairy light that winked in the waning light. The wind began to drop, the pukekos screamed from their nests in the greening raupo.

My coffee steamed and I sat warming my hands and watching through the lounge window as darkness and quiet fell again. Home and safe.

Spring...