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He sat in the lucerne’s centre
beyond the half empty dam
the bird lay flat
dead

Blood smothered one beautiful white wing
he rested the gun next to his unclean left boot
the wind had stopped
death

He willed the white bird back to life
drowning in anguish
horror
weakening his young stomach
disbelief

Just as the black and white bird
had reduced him to helplessness one year prior
there was no escape
his heavy head grated through to his spine

She could never be his
to own
even when they touched
he would sit alone
as he did today
night time approached