“Summer’s knocking again,” he said. “And the whole blessed thing starts over.”
“Look,” she said, pointing. “That’s our whole year, right there. The summer heat that dries it, the autumn winds that cool it, the winter frost that rests it, and the spring rain that wakes it up again.” australian seasons months
April was the month of harvest, though not of grain. The Thompsons harvested hay. For two weeks, the whole family worked from sunrise to sunset, cutting, raking, and baling the oaten hay that would feed the sheep through the coming winter. The paddock was a patchwork of rows and round bales that looked like giant biscuits scattered on the field. Mia’s job was to run water to the tractor drivers. Leo’s was to help stack the small square bales in the barn, a job that left his arms scratched and his shirt soaked with sweat. “Summer’s knocking again,” he said
Leo looked at the farm, not as a place, but as a clock. A clock that didn’t tick in seconds, but in seasons. December’s sweat, March’s harvest, July’s frost, and September’s wild, yellow wattle. The Australian year wasn’t a list of months on a page. It was a living, breathing thing—hot and cold, wet and dry, harsh and beautiful. And it never, ever stopped turning. The summer heat that dries it, the autumn
January was the cruelest month. The creek that had babbled in spring shrank to a string of muddy waterholes. The sky turned a pale, bleached white. Sarah spent her days checking water troughs, while the children helped move the sheep to the back paddocks where the native saltbush still held some moisture. The air smelled of eucalyptus oil and baked earth. One afternoon, a north wind blew in, hot as a dragon’s breath, and the temperature hit forty-four degrees. Mia lay on the cool lino of the kitchen floor with a wet washer on her forehead while a fan churned the thick air.
July was the deep, dark heart of winter. Frost lay on the ground until ten in the morning, turning the yard into a crunchy, white crust. The southern aurora sometimes flickered on the horizon, a silent curtain of green and pink light that made Mia believe in magic. This was the month for mending—mending fences, mending shoes, mending the tractor’s engine. There was a stillness to July, a holding of breath. The wattle began to bloom, tiny yellow pom-poms that defied the cold. “Wattle in July,” Grandad would say, tapping the calendar. “That’s the promise. Winter won’t last.”
August was the liar’s month. It could give you a day of warm sunshine that made you think spring had arrived, only to slap you with a hailstorm the next afternoon. The first lambs arrived—wobbly, long-legged creatures that the children named instantly. Sarah slept in the shearing shed with a torch, ready to help any ewe struggling in the cold. The paddocks began to show a faint green fuzz as the perennial grasses sensed the changing light. August was a month of false starts and fragile hope, but the hope was real. September exploded. There was no other word for it. The paddocks turned a brilliant, impossible green. The creek started to trickle again. The lambs grew fat and sassy, chasing each other in mad circles. The wattle was in full, glorious bloom—massive bushes of yellow that seemed to glow even on cloudy days. Magpies swooped from the sky, protecting their nests, and Leo learned to wear a hat with zip ties sticking out like antennae.