Black Wattles flower golden and petrichor is no more. The dehydrated husk of summer is now a sodden sponge that swells and softens. Rain hangs a veil on land pockmarked with mirrors as sunbaked valleys erode in rivulets and dry creek beds are roaring rivers. Worlds drown and exits flood but our warm wood fire's a reminder of another solstice.
Black Wattle tree in bloom with dog.
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