Despite scorching hot days like yesterday, the mornings are chilly.
Last night, on my way back from Nelspruit, the car was occasionally filled with the wonderfully cloying reek of the first veld fire, a winter smell.
As the long grass continues to go to seed, transforming from emerald green to lion tawniness, the fires will become more regular, then at winter's height, ferocious. Nevertheless, for me, it's the smell of winter, of Africa, of my youth.
Mika, the African Blackfoot Cross, who -literally - arrived on my doorstep in the final thunderstorm of last summer, has curled up on my lap. I sense she will be spending more and more time there in the coming months, despite that a wood stove is now installed in the kitchen.
The bowl of green tea was piping hot, now it's almost insipidly cold. It's time to write my morning pages, to reflect on the passing seasons, life's passing seasons too. Although one day my tree must too be bare and winter stark, I'm aware, right now, of being at my prime.
Even so, I fear not death, in fact I relish it with joy and wonderment. Often, when I'm worn out, I smile and excitedly look so forward to going home.
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