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.