January 16, 2020 | Sydney

Today I sit with my laptop on my thighs, the breeze blowing in smells of eucalyptus and damp woodchips from the garden my mother has toiled over for the last few months. It rained. Instead of the cracked sharp air of a starved landscape, there’s no smoke.

Thunder rolled into my dreams late last night. It was only when the dog systematically headbutt each closed door down the hallway until he reached mine that I opened my eyes to the light show nature was putting on outside.

George’s frantic panting and pacing is very much routine, as though it’s his duty to awake the household to the end of days outside. I had to thank him for the wake-up call because I left my swimsuit and towel on the line outside, and at 4:39am, got myself out of bed and out into the expectant yard of dry brown grass. Minutes later, it rained.

And rained.

Real rain.

You know the kind, rain that gets things wet. Sunburnt blades of grass and parched earth welcomed each falling droplet with the same quenched appreciation an ice cold sip of beer at the end of a long day provides.

Australia’s been thirsty for too long. Time to drink up.

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