Soon Leanne is seated on the timber porch, picking out sparse notes on her guitar, the sound disappearing into the thickened air, a space already occupied by rainbow lorikeets in the canopy above. A raucous chorus of birds and a heat like a lead weight, not entirely the elements of paradise most readily invoked in mid-winter daydreams.
Then it happens.
As Leanne begins a softly-hummed and improvised vocal, the treetop audience falls silent, a breeze blows off the waters of the inlet and down the path.
And in that moment she has calmed the savagery of the morning and somehow created a true – if temporary – paradise, one conjured from sweetness of voice and deftness of hand, not from poolside cocktails and sloth.