He left behind only the cliff, the crack, and the faint, fading echo of a land that refuses to be anything other than exactly what it is: the oldest, flattest, driest, wettest, hottest, coldest, most maddeningly beautiful weather machine on Earth.
The old man had laughed. It sounded like a dry thunderclap. climate of australia
“They want predictability,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I am not a clock. I am a drum. Sometimes I beat slow. Sometimes I beat fast. Sometimes I stop, and the silence is the most terrifying sound of all.” He left behind only the cliff, the crack,
“I have always been violent,” he told the ghost of that memory. “I gave them the Fremantle Doctor to cool their fever, and the Brickfielder to remind them of the furnace just over the hill. I made the Snowy Mountains so they could dream of winter, and the Simpson Desert so they would never forget summer. I am not getting worse. I am getting more myself .” Sometimes I beat slow
And with that, the old man who was the Climate of Australia dissolved into his elements. A wisp of cloud, a shimmer of heat haze, the scent of eucalyptus oil, and the distant roar of a bushfire just beginning its spring campaign.