This season, we eat the last of the green
grass in July. August is yellow and parched.
Fires surround us and we travel hundreds
of kilometres to avoid the acrid smoke that
coats the inside of our nostrils, hangs from
our manes like burdock burrs.
The sound of frogs faded in May.
We pass through streams as though they
were sunken bridges.
Our hoofprints are simply clouds. Dust.
