Something’s been thumping on our roof at night. It could have been the neighbourhood cats.
Something’s been eating the succulents on the balcony, even after protective wire was put around them. It could have been a rat, perhaps.
At night, something rowdy has been ransacking the camellia flowers and shaking loose the palm nuts from high up the neighbour’s tree. It could have been the flying foxes.
When I have woken in the earliest hours of the morning, and looked myopically through the bedroom window, isn’t that a silhouetted animal I’ve seen, scrambling down the long branches of the ash tree?
Last night I was out in the garden late, looking at the full moon, and I heard a crashing sound in the magnolia, which, I noticed earlier in the day, had a few new flowers.
And then I saw the possum. With the light behind it, I couldn’t see its face, and so couldn’t tell if it was interested in me or hoping that I wouldn’t notice it. But we spent several minutes looking at each other, and keeping very still, before it retreated to the safety of the darkness and the roof.
I’m sorry about the quality of the photo. But it is a photo of beauty.