One year I built myself a little nest in a green tent, surrounded by moonahs and gumtrees. Inside, I had an old embroidered tablecloth, its coloured threads stitched in swirls. I had crocheted rugs, a bean bag, a small seat and a floor covering.
From the tent I felt and heard the beauty in many small things: the way the light came through the fabric walls; the birds, so close to me, feeding in the wet soil; the magpies singing all morning from high up in the dry branches of the gumtree; tiny wrens of yellow and grey, a mass of them flitting in the tea tree; wattlebirds clacking; and the lift and lilt of the currawongs carolling.
