the heat

The blue bird that flew over the houses had wings cast shadows in
the olive grove, the docile mule bolted kicked over the bucket of water,
I had carried from the well it jumped over a stone fence didn’t make it
fell broke a leg. I called my neighbour he likes to kill things, something
unresolved from his childhood I think
All that blood a small river trickled and sank into parched ground, where
autumnal flowers sprung up and hid the dead body in an orgy of colours,
that got brighter and brighter when feasting on decay till they exploded
into a shower of rainbows which attracted dark clouds, and it rained;
huge drops- bigger than crocodile tears after laying eggs in the sand and
digging them up when time is right, taking them down to the water
hoping they would survive in their cruel habitat we call nature.
Next day the mule grazed as before, docile as nothing had happened,
but under an olive tree, I found a knife with dry blood, my neighbour
was yonder trimming almond trees that now have brown leaves and
full of nuts.  “Hollered didn`t you shot my mule last night?”  
“He shouted back it was a mistake I shot my mule your mule is OK,
It just had a wounded knee.