Late Summer Fires

 The paddocks shave black
with a foam of smoke that stays,
welling out of red-black wounds.


In the white of a drought
this happens.
 The hardcourt game.

Logs that fume are mostly cattle,

inverted, stubby.
 Tree stumps are kilns.

Walloped, wiped, hand-pumped,
even this day rolls over, slowly.


At dusk, a family drives sheep 
out through the yellow
of the Aboriginal flag.

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