I remember Eaglemont, the knitted green of its middle range foliage, the dawn orange of taller trees on every second leaf, the white bark exceptionally bright in forever freezing June air. Angles of older houses made horizontals where they appeared, their peaked orange roofs of Wunderlich tile robust against the cold, their windows looking out upon their neighbours’ mansions and bolt-holes. It’s the same today, the pastel blue that is neither mist nor clear, soft amidst unleafing trees and Burley Griffin split-level medians. A car, two, turn a corner. Bins wheeled to the edge wait near forever first blossoming wattletrees.