In the Australian outback, right after sunset, the Milky Way began its ascent, rising imperceptibly from the horizon. As the Milky Way painted a luminous river overhead, a timid flame began to nibble at the dry bush around it, and before long, a bushfire was born. The fire was a pulsating, dynamic entity, its shimmering light creating a stark, fascinating contrast with the serene march of the stars.

As the bushfire spread, it lent the scene an unlikely beauty, painting the underbelly of the Milky Way with a warm, flickering glow. The rhythmic twinkling of the stars above mirrored the erratic flickering of the flames below, creating a dance of light and shadow.

In a time before modern civilization, for thousands of years, our ancestors must have spent most of their nights viewing something just like this. Over a glowing amber, on a moonless night, they look at the stars. What stories were they telling then? Were there heroes, cowards, love and hatred like in our TV shows? I wonder.