Australian: Seasons Months

October was the busiest month. Shearing came, and with it, the shearers—rough, funny men who could eat a whole steak and three eggs for breakfast and still be hungry. The shed buzzed with the sound of electric clippers, the smell of lanolin, and the constant thud of wool bales being pressed. The children collected the fluffy, greasy wool scraps to put out for the birds to line their nests. Grandad stood at the wool table, classing the fleeces into bins: skirtings, bellies, and the precious, pristine main fleece. “This,” he said, holding up a cloud of white wool, “is our cheque book.”

The Calrossy homestead sat on a gentle rise, its corrugated iron roof baking or drumming depending on the season. For the Thompsons—Grandad Mac, his daughter Sarah, and her two children, 12-year-old Leo and 10-year-old Mia—the year was not measured by a calendar hanging on the pantry door. It was measured by the tilt of the sun, the taste of the dust on the wind, and the predictable, powerful shuffle of the Australian seasons. December arrived not with a whisper, but with a shimmer. The jacaranda trees by the creek had shed their purple blooms, and the paddocks, once green from spring rain, were now the colour of a lion’s mane. This was the time of long, slow heat. australian seasons months

The air was still almost cool as they walked, their boots crunching on dry grass. By nine o’clock, the temperature had climbed past thirty degrees. The flies arrived first—a persistent, buzzing cloud that settled on the corners of your eyes and mouth. Then came the cicadas, their vibrating drone filling the gum trees like a million tiny engines. October was the busiest month

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. The children collected the fluffy, greasy wool scraps

The days were golden and still, the light turning syrupy in the late afternoon. The box trees along the creek dropped their leaves, which floated down like small, leathery coins. Leo loved mustering in March—the sheep were calm, the flies were gone, and the sun on his back was a warmth, not a weapon.