In following the waterway across the hill,

York gum saplings holding out against

the erosive sidewash induced by downpours,

you come across the leg of a sheep, flesh

eaten away, bones held together by sinews

that have dried and tightened—the leg

is seized in the moment of “fall to your knees...”

It points neither up nor down the hill, nor divinely

the length of the waterway. A sheep death

under the old regime, a time when sheep

kept the grass down and died to rot

where they fell. Dismembered by foxes;

strewn about. Most of the corpses

were relocated before we arrived,

but the odd bleached skull, thigh bone,

clump of fat and wool remain. And the leg.

It keeps its own counsel.