I found him dozing in the dust
of the dry top-paddock dam.
Coiled olive and yellow stripes,
lazy in the afternoon sun.
I saw the blunt wedge
of his head stir to rise,
body flattening
like yesterday’s hay.
I stomped. Stomped again,
crushed head into hardpan,
and heard the moan
of life departing. Or just wind
through the empty grain silo.
Ryan Stone
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