Paradise flycatchers appear and blend instantly into their surroundings. The calls of other little feathered fiends, which you cannot see, no matter how hard you look. In summer, the heat dances in waves on the tarred surface of the winding road to Michele s home. Silver heads on the sugar cane sway gently to some unseen African rhythm - hawks hang lazily in the air above, watching. Cicadas scream in the foliage on the roadside.
Winters are bitterly cold in Waterfall.
The mist rolls in slowly. Long inquisitive fingers find their way to the windowpanes, seeking an audience with the warmth inside. Frost crackles underfoot in the garden as you hurry from your car. We speak in little puffs of warm air. Michele offered to introduce me to her neighbour.