Proboscises Probosces Proboscides

The air is perfect.  The temperature is so right that I can't even feel it on my skin.  An occasional, gentle, cool breeze ruffles my hair, just enough to be refreshing. 
The cicadas chirruping fills the air, cleverly they have synchronised into a rhythmic beat of sound.

Butterflies flit lazily, delicately alighting onto tiny flowers, proboscises uncurling to drink the tiny drops of nectar within.  Spiralled dances ensue when chance happens upon an encounter with another butterfly.

A brilliant blue Splendid Wren busily hops through the grass, oblivious to my presence, sharp eyes spotting tiny insects to eat.  His females, safely hiding in the shrubs, talk to him incessantly.

 Glancing over, I admire the first banksia flower in my garden.  It is tiny, and perfect.

Bushflies drone, only occasionally causing annoyance with their tickly little feet.  Bees busily dash from flower to flower, weighing themselves down with pollen-laden hind legs.

I study the beautiful old jarrah growing behind the shed, wondering how to photograph it to show its true magnificence.  It's never quite right in a photo.

Every now and then a kangaroo hops past the fenceline, I can hear rustling, one of them is nibbling at the other side of the banana passionfruit vine growing on the fence, it's probably Lucy.  Brutus, the big boy, has been actively pursuing a female all day.  We keep out of his way.

Christmas spiders team up, forming a wall of webs between the plants.  They sit motionless on the underside of their webs, like armoured, jewelled stones, reducing the fly population.

 I'm sitting on the lounge on the back patio, reading.  It's a great book, thanks for lending it to me mum -  "All The Light We Cannot See", by Anthony Doerr.  I am really into it, but I keep getting distracted by all this glorious nature.  So the pages turn slower than usual.  But that's okay.

It's been a perfect afternoon.