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.