A north-westerly at first, smelling of dry grass, and Murray telling them they were in for a blasting. ‘You should put the ute in the shed,’ he told his son. As they sat drinking tea the wind picked up, gusting, gently sandpapering their windows and bluestone walls. Trevor could hear the bottle tree; he went to the laundry door to look. A few plastic bottles skidded across the compound before tumbling down the hill onto the flatlands. Two or three beer bottles dropped and smashed and a few shattered on their strings, hanging like broken limbs. Trevor saw that it blew flat and fast. ‘Harry!’ he called. Harry came out. They ran across the compound into the chook yard and chased the hens into their house. Trevor fastened the latch and tried to secure a plastic tarp over the windows. ‘Washing,’ he said to his son, and Harry walked, leaning into the wind, towards the line. As he went he shielded his eyes and spat sand from his lips.
