The wind, in great and consistent gusts, is hot and drying. It carries dust which fills my lungs. My breaths are shallow, my sneezes many. I try not to rub my eyes, but they are bloodshot (and match my bruised, grazed skin). The dust is a haze down Goodwood Road and across to the hills. The fire danger is high.
I have been wearing a jumper all day, not thinking to take it off. Until now. Relief as stuffiness goes.
The door is left open by boys. The wind has chased even them in from their games of cricket and monster traps. The coats of dust on the floor and the kitchen bench grow.
Even my teeth feel gritty and dry.
I bring the still unplanted trees inside, and put them in the laundry sink. The ones we have planted could die. The water restrictions say buckets only for gardens. But I am thinking of sneaking out with a hose. We need the trees to live. I won’t of course.
I’ve checked the worms. They’re fine. Thriving. They seem not to have bloodshot eyes.
I already told you once. I hate spring. Especially when it comes before winter is gone.