Open Season

A cattledog drinks from a can, flanks vibrating,
tail the baton orchestrating bodyfat.
Conversely country music rides

a radio wave drawn-out dippy as akubra brims.
Hills I crested coming into town ran wire
fencing that resembled sheet music drawn freehand

by a drunk: small birds threading it at speed
produced no evening chorus. There were no cows.
The poem at this point might have headed

nowhere, or in various directions, but settled
in a carpark cum beergarden, saw the mascot
cattledog drinking from what was a paintcan.

See how form is following dysfunction?
The sky’s an old tarpaulin. Music draws power
from a car battery, or we accept monoxide ambience.

Anything to fill the silence. Pizzey’s field guide
to identify the birds I saw as wrens or finches.
Yokel spotfires lit to mark out riverbanks.