“This is the dangerous beauty.” September brought jasmine and wattle, the air electric with pollen. October was for kites—real ones, not birds—dancing on hot, rising winds. But November… November was the month of the fire dragon. The grass turned white. The sky turned orange. The cockatoos screamed and flew inland. “Spring here doesn’t whisper,” Miri said. “It roars. Then the first thundercloud of December appears, and we begin again.”
“January, if you love the sound of rain on a tin roof. July, if you want to see the Milky Way. November, if you are brave. But never ask an Australian which month is best,” she added, winking. “We will argue for hours.”
“This is when the sky turns fat and heavy,” Miri said. In December, the mangoes swelled. By January, the air was so thick you could drink it. February brought cyclones with names like Ada and Marcus, and the rivers ate the roads. Children swam in flooded paddocks. Tourists complained about humidity; Miri’s people sang for the rain. seasons australia months
Miri picked up a handful of red soil and let it sift through her fingers.
A tourist boy, about nine, tugged her sleeve. “So which month is the best?” “This is the dangerous beauty
Miri would smile, her dark eyes crinkling. “Spring,” she’d say, “is a European word. Here, we have six seasons. But for you? I’ll teach you the months the way the wind does.”
“The land exhales,” she said. March was the last gasp of the wet—sudden, furious storms that vanished within the hour. By April, the nights turned soft. In May, the first fires were lit for warmth, and the turtles came up from the billabongs to lay eggs in the red dust. The grass turned white
“This is our secret season.” June mornings were so crisp you could see your breath. July was the month of clear, cold stars and blue, cloudless days. In August, the whales passed by the coast of New South Wales, and the desert bloomed with tiny, defiant wildflowers. “This,” Miri laughed, “is when Australians wear puffy jackets. At 18 degrees.”