In late summer
I feel the chill again
the first marauding
from the high plateau

I can sense the teeth in everything
and claws under rock and ti-tree
biting down

in the dry sand of the creekbed
I find the skeleton of a barn owl
and snap off its skull
with a twist of my thumb and forefinger

I string it
with a length of fishing-line
and for days
I wear it around my neck
dreaming at night
of the crack of lizard-bones
the death-cries of small marsupials

the hard beak
as I work
knocking against my chest

the great, absent eyes
as I sleep
watching from eucalpyts
or waiting in dark rafters.