Brindabellas If that peat wasn’t searing infrangibly or that dorsal cleft of fire sifted vacancy, that drum would echo with stars like a delirium of highways and the warmth of the night would fumigate the clearing with a monsoon of mosquitoes. But the drum rumbles stably and marbles the thick air like a manicurist’s file flashing and muttering, and the trees weep only the crackle of shed leaves into the gathering. We may walk away from the intimate circle long enough to catch the evening’s cold and return it suppliantly to the graceful fire and bathe our limbs in the…