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There it grazes timidly, in a patch of yellow earth,
It is a solitary creature, herbivorous, benevolent.
It makes its home among the outer suburbs, scavenging for the gray bags
that bob around its feet,
Solitary but never lonely. Quiet. It likes things that way.
Among the tessolation of squat houses, each the same, a driving rhythm
of red-brick fences and faded nature strips,
Yellowed with smoke and the slamming of car doors,
Like carpets of weathered tissue paper,
Dwells the beast. Free to roam, freed by complacency, irresponsibility, sloth.
It is unremarkable. That is its secret.
It crawls from place to place, in the nighttime: an empty car park, a vacant lot,
a creeping creek bed,
Eventually to make its way home, of its own accord, unnoticed as ever
as it mingles with the herd.
Which is greets with raucous, joyful clatter, and goes on, unnoticed as ever.