To gaze upon such ferocity, from a safe distance,
imbued with beauty—look aside, eyes blazing
with goodness—the headers out in crops
to strip and thresh in a movement, now the dryness
is with us, and equity funds have ownership.
The mice have taken what they can—working
it over on their small threshing floors.
The harvest is sparse. There’s not a lot
to go round. Parrots shadow progress,
divest spillages. Done patchwork
across the district, the full bouquet of gathering
is unrealised. The mice are pro-active—
stockpiling even as the grain falls,
becoming less fertile. Dust is precious; explosive.
The clouds falter over clear spaces.
There was no winter. It was cold, without rain.
I speak out because the bloody sunsets
are so hard to cope with. I hear
the mice working the same husks over:
remember the comb gnawing the paddocks,
the stammering lines already cropped.