Tom Connors, Waratah’s head stockman, leant on the steel railings of the holding yard, a rolling paper dangling from his lips. He pulled some tobacco from his leather pouch and rolled a cigarette between yellow-stained fingers. Then, yanking a Zippo from his back pocket, he flicked it alight and inhaled pleasurably as the rollie sparked up, the scent of lighter fluid lingering briefly as he blew a perfect smoke ring skywards. Brash squawking drew Tom’s attention above and he watched absentmindedly as a flock of galahs created a sea of pink among the cottony clouds. The raucous birds were headed in the direction of the top dam, he guessed, where they frequently congregated. Clever birds. It was his favourite spot for a swim, too, and the small waterfall was magnificent in the wet season. Bringing his attention back to where Jay was loading the cattle onto the waiting truck, Tom groaned as he eased his head from side to side, trying to rid the kinks from his neck, squeezing his shoulder with his hand.
