Picnics

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The car, blissfully, stalled
in the shallows of Cash’s Crossing.
The water flowed right through and wet,
as we opened all doors to scream,
the car carpet.

Cows stood dripping water from hippopotamus mouths,
their eyes, except in colour, the same as Grandpa’s
and a vacuuming current
sucked all leeches downstream.

Through bars of a paddock gate farm dogs slipped free;
impervious to ticks
they gay-tailed round creekbends.
At home our locked-in dachshund gnawed perforations
in all lower slats of the French door venetian blinds.

The eel-cold deep of the waterhole
didn’t frighten us.
We hugged the hot from rounded basalt rocks.

The afternoon slid down the day’s long prospect,
the air congealed with dust
and fat from chops; our journey back
bored through the gap time left
for the endlessly open shop.

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