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I feel guilt as I scarify bush hillsides, raking up leaf litter as a somewhat puny defence against raging fires and turning deep mulch into barren dirt. I feel guilt as I ring the tree lopper to remove the red cedar at my front door because it's lifting the paving and create an emptiness in the sky.

However, my neat leaf piles on the hillside above the house have been scattered by two young male lyrebirds, who have rearranged the piles to their liking as they practise their strutting and singing. The bare earth under the girthy spotted gums down towards the old tent site and laundry is richly carpeted with substantial shreds of bark in red, orange, deep buff, grey, rust, green and pink. The remains of the cedar trunk is shooting with the speed of Jack's bean stalk, more than a metre in two weeks.

Nature won't let me get away with my interference in her world.