How cold is it? Maybe 1 or 2 degrees. The bush is still wrapped in a foggy shroud. Mist hangs on paddocks. Mirror reflections on dams. Cobwebs drape bushes like he finest of crocheted doilies. Miners tracks weave through the forest with the promise of gold yet to be found.
As the sun begins to burn off the mist the trunks are lit with gold, galahs shriek and small birds sing. Another day dawns in the goldfields.