A scene from childhood, remembered as a half peaceful, half eerie dream sequence. Deep in the bush where there were no cicadas singing, the moist smell of soil, a small stream, dark ferns. Occasional streaks of sunlight struck the water. The middle of the ponga fern looked as if it would be a perfect bed to curl up in. I half believed that there were bush-dwelling creatures that did live and sleep there, watching me from the shadows.