I met the
graziers, working with National Park wardens under the scrutiny of an archaeologist,
as a mass grave was dug deep to bury a pile of about twenty of the ponies. Flesh
retreating from jaws of teeth set in a fixed grin and a stench of rotten flesh.
Most pitiful the sight of a small leg protruding from a mare which had struggled
to give birth or abort before death overcame her.
On the
hillside a group of ponies was grazing away, they must have been stronger and
fitter. The only possible consolation of
this disaster, a stronger gene pool for the future herd of ponies.
No comments:
Post a Comment