The sun is mild and low but it's pleasantly warm in the garden, here in Joburg in Autumn.
In the East, tangles of Parasol Tree and Winter Jasmine crowd around the lower trunk of the Very Big Cycad - which lately held an Owl, and several Louries screaming at it.
A couple of very interesting-sounding birds are calling in the garden. The dogs are dozing inside.
There's nothing much going on in the South, however. There's heaps of flaked-off wall paint, part of the preparation for repainting the outside of the house, and steel gates taken off last weekend and waiting to be re-welded and put up again.
This is my favourite time of the year. Rushing Dark Water, as the life river flows swiftly, for me, past the Tree and under the Bridge. Heading Westward, inscrutable and comforting in its opacity.
Falling backwards, I feel the water accept my soul and carry me away to the land from where we leave this life.
I'm not dying, and yet I'm very much dying. It's blessed and peaceful.
In times like this, I can see the liminal place between states fairly clearly. And I am transported.