The Heat

The blue bird that flew over the houses had wings cast shadows in the olive grove, the docile mule bolted kicked over the bucket of water, I had carried from the well it jumped over a stone fence didn’t make it fell broke a leg. I called my neighbour he likes to kill things, something unresolved from his childhood I think All that blood a small river trickled and sank into parched ground, where autumnal flowers sprung up and hid the dead body in an orgy of colours, that got brighter and brighter when feasting on decay till they exploded into a shower of rainbows which attracted dark clouds, and it rained; huge drops- bigger than crocodile tears after laying eggs in the sand and digging them up when time is right, taking them down to the water hoping they would survive in their cruel habitat we call nature. Next day the mule grazed as before, docile as nothing had happened, but under an olive tree, I found a knife with dry blood, my neighbour was yonder trimming almond trees that now have brown leaves and full of nuts. “Hollered didn`t you shot my mule last night?” “He shouted back it was a mistake I shot my mule your mule is OK, It just had a wounded knee.