You are sitting on the verandah of a log cabin near a rainforest. Knotted, slightly rotted timber rails stand between you and the scene beyond. Beside you is an old iron pot-belly stove, emitting inviting warmth plus the muffled crackle of the wood fire burning within.
The waft of smoke from the stove joins the smells of the fresh, cool, misty breeze that blows gently across your face and body, after whispering through the rainforest, a home to many birds and their songs, that stretches away from you towards the tall, snow capped mountains in the distance.
The forest begins on the far edge of a creek that separates the forest from the vast, grassy plains on which the cabin stands. At the bottom of a slight embankment from where you sit, the creek runs from your left to your right, the water trickling over the rocky creek bed, bending around the roots of an old, large myrtle tree that grows on its far side, directly in front of you.
Occasionally, the myrtle tree will release one of its leaves, which gently falls down to the creek below and is swept downstream and out of sight by the current.
