Holding taut barbed-wire with one hand

and myself with the other

I gaze at the ground

as hundreds of shining grey dust droplets

roll away from the rotting fence post

down the hill 

moving like mercury.

The drumming piss 

makes surf of the dirt 

churns it into frothy mud.

Apostle birds (perhaps twelve of them) 

launch and fan off above my head

upset as I shake off the last bead

and refasten.