Dingo

The sun stretches into his wide-jawed

yawn, teeth shining.

Mouth shuts.

Panting now, he roams the beach.

Eyes scanning, nose vigilant,

it tugs him along to follow a

eucalyptus haze to fire and food.

Wary - pacing the sandy edges of the camp,

he nips in between children’s legs,

to sneak a smoky bone.

Circumspect.

He’s a wraith slipping off into the scrub.

Content with long shadows and cooling sand,

he tucks in, meticulously scraping off the flesh.

He lurks, knowing in a visceral sense

that human contact is a double-edged sword.

There’s a change on the wind.

Quiet.

He picks his way through wattle scrub,

and heads inland,

isolating from the menacing tide.