And at midnight, when I awake from rapping, I draw the curtain back with one hand to see the cause. It could be anywhere, Mt Eliza or somewhere. The neighbour’s absurd oleanders thrash about, frenzied silhouettes. Curving wattle branches bend to breaking point then lash back. The nectarine, bare as can be, shakes to its trunk base. It could be anytime, June or whatever. Warmth is comfort for which to give thanks, under the doona. Through the curtain gap I see tall eucalypts, in extremis, whipped and whipping. Waiting for rain sounds on the roof, I fall into sleep again.