Come with me on a walk beside the road paddock.
Watch out for the sloppy cow pads as the weaners are feasting on the clover.
Yesterday they escaped but today they are heads down and bums up, happily grazing as the sun warms up the air.
I hear a commotion.
A mob of tiny birds are assaulting a black and white bird and they force it into a tangle of branches that were trapped in the last heavy gully run. It is adjacent to a defunct wombat hole.
The victim hides then foolishly re-appears and they peck at it and drive it into the sky, out of sight.
Survival of the fittest.
Maybe a message for us in these times too.