Merry Merry King of the Bush is He

Tonight, as I lay on my third-floor bed, reading Ivan Denisovich and wishing for cooler weather, I could have sworn I heard a kookaburra. There was a cackling in the courtyard, and just for a moment I was back in Macedon, with muted gum trees out the window and sharp clean air all around.

Of course, it's only children, shouting and clambering over the rickety, rusting play equipment; the air retains its customary aroma of cigarette smoke and smog, and the only things out my window are the innumerable other windows facing it; still, I am left aching for my land.