Friday morning. It still Hasn’t rained

Friday morning. It still hasn’t rained.

The creeks have dried up into little puddles of slime and mud. This week I saw a blue crane trying to drink from between the rocks of the creek bed. The smallest puddle receding each day.

It still hasn’t rained.

The grass outside is all crinkling. The large leaves are curled and deciding if they’ll fall off or not. Yellowing and turning red, like Autumn. In early-Summer.

The skies look like beautiful misty mornings; but in fact it’s smoke. From fires across the range. The fires that have been burning hundreds of hectares of National Forest, and still keep burning. 

And still it hasn’t rained. 

Each morning the sun comes up behind that gum tree, and casts a red tint on everything. Not the right sort of morning glow we expect. An omen for the firey blood red of the sun we’ll watch burn from the sky, behind the shadow of smoke.

And still the fires burn.

The light in the forest in the afternoon - it’s not what I would call golden hour. Change that to blood-hour : crimson shafts cutting through. Casting fire on the trees. Reflecting off the few drops of water I save for the garden.

The radar says rain will come. The skies don’t show much sign.

The government sends their wishes and hopes to those who have lost their homes. And feels sad that almost 1000 koalas have died in the fires; and also also lost their homes.

And still the fires burn.