Summer in the scrub

So far from here and yet like a moth to the flame, that alien world of indifference. Where days are so bleached with light, the scene is screen-burnt in eyes by night.


Summer days in the badlands

An abrasive scrubland of dry wind and ultraviolet radiation; A tinderbox of accelerant with wiffs of phantom smoke; Where eucalypts birthed by fire shy from midday's sun; And browning leaves are falling but Autumn is not calling.

Out there the eastern brown, and the red-striped snake and spider; Out there meat ants are odorous underfoot but strip carcass to the bone; Out there swarms of flies buzz the shade and cicadas sound like a siren.

Out there, because there is peace in a place where people do not go.

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Summer days in the badlands