view from the ute   clouds in the west             moisture in the air                         a day’s worth needed dry in the shed pushed into pens they’ll stand all night panting their collective breath. cast the dogs skirt the dam swing the gates sound the horn maintain the pace chivvy the stragglers mark ’em for the cull.   sheep on the run in a mob of our making one leaps as if stung more pop like corn drop back into place massed heads in motion a murmur on the move. Robyn Lance