“This is our secret season.” June mornings were so crisp you could see your breath. July was the month of clear, cold stars and blue, cloudless days. In August, the whales passed by the coast of New South Wales, and the desert bloomed with tiny, defiant wildflowers. “This,” Miri laughed, “is when Australians wear puffy jackets. At 18 degrees.”
And the wind carried her laughter across the floodplains, through the ghost gums, and into the next season—whatever name it chose to wear.
Here’s a short story that weaves together the seasons and months of Australia.
“This is the dangerous beauty.” September brought jasmine and wattle, the air electric with pollen. October was for kites—real ones, not birds—dancing on hot, rising winds. But November… November was the month of the fire dragon. The grass turned white. The sky turned orange. The cockatoos screamed and flew inland. “Spring here doesn’t whisper,” Miri said. “It roars. Then the first thundercloud of December appears, and we begin again.”
Miri picked up a handful of red soil and let it sift through her fingers.
A tourist boy, about nine, tugged her sleeve. “So which month is the best?”
“The land exhales,” she said. March was the last gasp of the wet—sudden, furious storms that vanished within the hour. By April, the nights turned soft. In May, the first fires were lit for warmth, and the turtles came up from the billabongs to lay eggs in the red dust.
