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My son’s backyard is a a mini rainforest, a treasury of leaves,  It’s part of an ecological corridor stretching from the top of Mt Tamborine to the coastal plains now edged by the obscene towers of the Gold Coast. Brush turkeys emerge from the corridor to maraud the garden, and once a dingo pup lurked there until he was coaxed out by K, who is a dog-whisperer. At the base of the garden is a creek bed, dry now but becoming a torrent when it rains hard. One magical night my son took my hand and led me out into darkness, suddenly illuminated by the dance of fireflies. This morning’s illumination is the dappling of sunshine.