We've had no rain to speak of, since July.
An unheard of dry spell for this part of the country, so close to rainforest.
But the world has shifted, just a little.
Mist blankets the fields in the mornings, and the fog horns sound across the Strait.
Everywhere, the orb weavers' work outlined with dew.
Soon glistening gold with give way to grey.
A certain sadness at this changing of the seasons.