Beyond the Jumbuck Ranges, where red dust swirls and stains, A boab tree grows, bottle-shaped, on cattle station plains. It’s stood there for some thousand years, a silent ancient scout, Observing ever-changing land of fire and flood and drought. Today, as every other...

“All right, mate?”
Dean blinked back a glitter of tears as the foreman’s calloused hand settled on his shoulder. The pine’s grain swam back into focus. He’d been doing it again. That thing where his mind wandered away to a dark, distant place he didn’t have a map for.