New years' day, 2015, at an hour which belongs mostly to the birds

Cool sunshine streams in through the fly screen as the morning expands like a helium balloon. We rise from bed like wisps of air, bleary-eyed ghosts pattering down the hall in nighties and bare feet. It's so quiet. 

Last traces of sleep dissipate in licks of orange pulp, the sound of a spoon circling the lip of a plastic cereal bowl. From where it hums by the back door, the fridge sports its alphabet magnets like scout badges. 

Outside, the proud magpies warble from where they fuss around the gum trees, and a kookaburra belts from its perch on the neighbour's TV antenna. There is a poster in the bedroom of all the rare birds we might find in the area, but we just haven't climbed enough trees yet.

Later, the car engines will start, the chattering radios, the mechanic drone of someone's lawnmower. But not yet. The airy morning belongs to us. And the swaying eucalypts. And the silver spoons. And the magpies. 

We pour ourselves another bowl of cereal each, then don our sunhats and march off into the garden.