The leaves are turning again, their rims crisping at the margins and their laminas flushing a deep red. The fluorescent pink flowers of the crepe myrtle are dissolving like clumps of moistened fairy floss; their leaves — which appeared so late in spring I thought the tree might have died — are yellowing before my eyes, a slow-motion blur of green to the buttery gold that will precipitate their demise. High in the paperbark tree, a rainbow lorikeet is admonishing an Indian minor; they’re fighting beak and claw over the creamy filaments of autumn’s already-moribund blossoms.