Two Lambs
Our car rolls through the vein of our granite tableland.
Spotted cows dot the highway,
Their horns waving to each passerby as they chew on cheekfuls of grass.
Their children, lank-legged and blanketed in baby fluff,
Huddle to their mothers against the bitter southerly.
Hawks sweep under the skin of the region,
their claws flexing at the possibility of jumping mouse treats.
Parents pull over with green children.
Pausing to breathe, clean the crumbs off the seats,
And pick the reddened wild apples.
Finally, as we reach the heart,
Two lambs lay in the swaying grass of the lagoon.
Their bodies must have been dumped last night.
Their eyes have
been plucked out.
