As I walk home, I can hear the throaty, warbled voice of the magpies and the croaky 'art, art! ' of the crows in the trees. Two dragonflies dance by in front of my eyes, while the sun shines down and shows their shadows on the hot tarmac. Nearby our house, orange red leaves are actually falling from the tree, non native of course. The indigenous old ones are busy shedding their bark in long strips ready to set on fire like a tinder box. Aeroplanes regularly rumble, flying low overhead in their redirected routes to the airport. On the top of the hill, home made swings from old rubber tyres and bottle crates, sway in the breeze. From the corner of Mitchell, Chapman and Duke, in one direction you see the skyscrapers of Perth city and looking the other, the Hills in the country. Always the smell of Eucalyptus on the soft breeze.