Before I left for a trip, I walked around my garden, coffee in hand. The ornamental almond was just starting to bud. I looked at the tree fondly. The flowers have been late to arrive this year.
I stopped a moment and took a picture.
And then another
And one more … I felt like a new mother, inspecting every nub, like counting toes on newborn feet.
I thought by the time I returned from my trip today, the tree would be frosted as it does every year. I was so wrong.
When I was away a storm came through the area. It destroyed my fence. The giant Tahitian lemon tree, the mulberry tree and the ornamental almond tree bore the brunt of fierce winds. The honeysuckle vine is shredded. I came home to wreckage. In a week my landscaping plans have been brought forward by a year. To say I am saddened to lose what has been familiar for the last three years, is an understatement. The garden, planted by others, grew on me. What is sadder to watch is the birds. They fly around confused, nothing is where it used to be.
Perhaps the buds photographed before I left were a premonition. New life awaits. I can do nothing else, but embrace this thought. I will create a new eden.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
The sun was fading fast. The wind strong. My eyesight weak. But like him, I set up, waiting for success.
He leaned right back, now almost lying down. He had done this before. The gouges in the sand, his history.
The wind lifted him. Airborne!
I stopped by Minninup Pool, just outside Collie. 
How many shades of yellow can one find? 
I had heard the underside of the blue enamel orchid is beautiful. It is.
In nature, when differences come together, it creates nothing but spectacular beauty. 
A wild orchid.
A bottlebrush waiting to bloom.
I found hundreds of these white and pink lily like flowers in Margaret River.
The flowers were growing on stalks a few feet high.
And these poms of white found a place in wooded areas too.
Her garden is a delight. I stop to take a picture here and there.
The ornamental almond tree was frosted white.
The ornamental peach tree bloomed elsewhere.
There were bulbs bejewelled with bees.
I found this in one corner, my camera sees what she hasn’t in a long time. “How on earth did that bloom there?”, she asks me, and we both laugh at her surprise. 
I loved the white flowers in another corner and asked her what they were. She tells me, they are English May, a cutting from her grandmother’s garden. It’s something she cherishes. Not hard to see why.
She is seated on a plastic chair, crutches to the side, water hose in hand dousing dirt in front of her with about 15 silver eye keeping her company. They dig into the damp soil for tasty morsels. She giggles like a little girl at their antics.
Yellow everlasting flowers growing roadside in the Wheatbelt.
or growing side by side with blue leschenaultia in dry, gravel soil.
The beautiful velvety native purple flowers on grey foliage that look extremely ordinary from a distance. But close up? You be the judge.
These interesting flowers are tiny and waxy. I’ve seen creamy lemon ones in the Goldfields. They glisten in the sun like dew. Up close, they are delicate and finely veined, like aged hands. I’ve seen hundreds and thousands of these, but this time, I saw one in bloom. Exquisite.
Then there are the tiny everlastings that glow like embers, along the ground.
The beautiful spears of grevillea that grow wild everywhere.
Or these mops of orange.
and blue.
The delicate intricacy of the cone flower.
And tiny, tiny, butter yellow blooms.
I still find white flowers joyful.
At first the mother duck swam serenely past him with ducklings in tow.
He watched them glide by and drew attention, the sound a mere burble that made ripples around him, saying “I’m here”.
She ignored him. Then his body language changed as he exposed more and more of his chin lobe and moved faster, with a speed that took me by surprise.
He followed the female duck drawing closer, becoming increasingly relentless in his pursuit.
I thought the ducklings looked afraid as they moved towards their mother. She stopped and studied the moment.
Then she intervened, putting herself between the male and her ducklings. She engaged in a dance with him this way as they glided past me, in a back and forth.
He chased her repeatedly, the ripples around him becoming wider.
She ignored him. He arched his body into a bow, chin lobe prominent and brush tail stiffened in a final still moment.
Then he exploded. The water erupted around him. In one desperate moment, he put on his best show. She did what ducks do best. With ducklings in tow, she paddled on, unimpressed.
I’ll start by putting it out there. I’m no sports fan. After decades of living in Australia, I’m still getting my head around Australian Rules football (colloquially known as footy). Briefly …
On the way to Big Swamp early morning, I watched others wet a line at Wylarup Rocks, while I set off searching for mine.
And found it in the tiny blue wren, who, in a word, was splendid.
His mate was grey and beige, but as beautiful, with an aqua tail feather.
I heard a New Holland Honeyeater tweet, but this one was not as sharp. I could not see it at first so I just aimed and took a picture. This is what I found! My first sighting of a chick.
The Silvereye were alert, as was I, to catch this one.
I left Bunbury and headed to the Wheatbelt. There were paddocks of flowers wherever I looked. In some places there were kilometers of white freesias. My friend in Canada posted a picture of recent snowfall in Calgary. In contrast, we are enjoying snowfields of a different kind.
This was a creeper found extensively on ground. At first I thought it was red liquid and at close up, the vibrancy took my breath away.
This little plant, no more than six inches high, was laden with tiny flowers.
A type of hardenbergia was covering massive tracts of foliage, the likes of which I’ve never seen before!
I found a tiny sundew and have just noticed it had company. I’m not sure if you can see the detail on the insect. It’s beautiful.
There were huge shrubs with fronds of flowers delicate enough to be on a wedding cake.
And of course the purple hardenbergia was everywhere too.
I was exhausted from driving on lonely, country roads in unfamiliar country, so at the end of the day, I returned to Back Beach in Bunbury to catch sunset. I was whole again.
When new life begins.
And young ones are nurtured.
When one finds colour erupting in unexpected places.
And even succulents on beach sand bloom in the warmth.
A time when the mulla mulla appear in their hundreds of thousands across the arid mining country, with mauve spears tipped in pink.
Or one finds a florist shop, roadside on an empty highway, that gave me pause to think.
A clump of cowslip orchids, found unexpectedly, in debris.
Manna acacia blooming below a canopy of gum trees.
A spider orchid, dancer like, posturing mid-furl.
An emu in the wild, caught mid-stride, long neck perfectly curled.
The tiny inland thorn bill with yolk egg feathers, singing for mate, in spring.
A Willy Wagtail, with bling in her wing.
Sunset in an autumn leaf.
Pink ballerina tutus in shrubs, just below the trees.
Ballgowns draped on shrubs, more beautiful than found on any red carpet.
A trio of pristine white cornettes.
A gift from and for the sea, left on shore by someone unknown. But it spoke to, and, for me.
There is just a cyclone fence that separates the tarmac from the airport. I’ve been on flights where the co-pilot stepped out and helped unload the luggage. Everyone here is, “mate”. Give me this over luxury any day!
This is the arrival lounge. It is quite possible there was a water bottle dispenser nearby, and some toilets, but that was it.
Arrival/Departure lounge. That’s it!
The beach is 60km long and the coquina shells are about 10m deep. One needs sunglasses here! It is sheer brilliance.
The sea did not look too far away, but it was a deceptively long walk. 
Interestingly, the wind has furrowed long gullies, so one disappears from sight while walking towards the ocean, dipping and surfacing, like a fun ride.
Trillions of shells as far as the eye can see.
And shells within shells.
We reached the water finally. The colours of blue, beautiful.
The sea shimmered like plastic wrap.
On one ridge, I found spring in a bed of shells.
I arrived in Monkey Mia with a travelling companion on a perfect, picture postcard day.
I noticed the speaker kept one hand in pocket and the other held a tiny microphone as she explained the history, ending with a firm warning, no touching the dolphins. As she started her spiel, the dolphins raced in from the open sea.
They lined up for feeding! Yes, queued up!
What do they make of us! Look at the ‘knowingness’ in that eye!
The feeding is strictly minimal, more like a small snack.
And, when excited hands miss their mark, the dolphin scans the sandy floor, with one eye wide open, the other shut.
I watched one get away and slip under the jetty. It swam out to the space between the crowds and a small pier. Then I saw a little girl break away too from her family to watch the lone dolphin. The dolphin swam back and forth in the small space, while the audience of one watched on bemused.
But this moment, between girl and dolphin, certainly made me smile.
A Shared Space 
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