Nightfall, and the bats are on the move. They fly, beating wings against the greying sky, airborne mammals, shrugging upside down through the day and battering out through the sky in defiance of all probability.
In the distance, squeezed in the frame between roofs, the wind turbine swings lazily, yet, insistently: challenging any latter day Quixotes who would want to sally forth on whatever Rocinante takes their fancy.
Ahead of me the TV aerials thrust skyward: reminders of a time spent wanting Sydney – but only grudgingly. The audio landscape blurs away with the hum of the coal loader, as we rip out the insides of the valley and pump them into the open squawking magpie chick mouths of an energy hungry world.
The wind turbine speeds up, energetically.
Why couldn’t we rehabilitate open cut mines as solar farms? The infrastructure is close by to connect to grids, and the earthworks are required anyway.
The sky darkens more, and the occasional bat flies a reverse course: returning, almost sheepishly: to their inverted shrug.
The distant susurration of a rain squall crescendoes across tin roofs and glides across the street. Falling sheets are enough to excite the motion sensor and the light comes on.
Tighes Hill; Saturday night.