Black fingers
found an opening in the clouds and reached in ripping out insides, throwing
rain to the thirsty earth of the hinterland below. On they flew, four corvid
brothers, beaks tearing at the storm-heavy skies. They had heard, in caws and
croaks, the bush fires were coming. Mouths of smoke and teeth of sparks,
fireballs launching from tree to tree, swallowing them whole, belching out
charred remains: the bones of the bush.
Haunted
by their own form, by the memory of flesh and the lives they lost, the four
brothers cried out urging others to join them. The height of summer, the heat
of winter. Four calling birds, a curse of forever-flight turned to a gift.
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