Dingo on a Dirt Track

He trots toward our cabin,

moves like a man

in unfamiliar country,

his gait unhurried and coat

the colour of a sandy

creek bed. I stand to greet

this unexpected arrival.

He meets my gaze, then

swings a pointed snout

back the way it came.

Side-on it’s clear winter

and spring were lean.

And now he’s come and gone,

what to make of his story

and mine? No more than

this is dingo country too.

Last thing I see of him

is an unassuming yawn.

Published Broken Ground UWAP