Summer in the scrub

Summer days in the badlands

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

An abrasive scrubland of dry wind and ultraviolet radiation; a tinderbox of accelerant and a whiff 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's the eastern brown, and the red-striped snake & spider. Out there meat ants strip carcass to the bone; swarms of flies buzz the shade; and cicadas sound like a siren. Out there, because despite the hospitality, there is peace in a place where people do not go.