“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.”
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. australian seasons months
On the first morning of summer, Grandad Mac woke Leo before dawn. “C’mon, boy. The ewes need moving before the sun turns the yard into a frypan.” “Look,” she said, pointing
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. The box trees along the creek dropped their
“June is about keeping the core warm,” Grandad said, knitting a new jumper from the wool of last year’s best ewe.
“Summer is about survival,” Sarah said, pouring icy cordial into three glasses. “Not thriving.”