Wombats

"Boonk, Boonk!"
Is the sound of a wombat,
Going under my car.
In the clear frosty evenings,
You must be especially on guard.
Last night the moon was full.

First it was a fleet footed fox,
That crossed my path;
Fleet footed enough.
I slow to a crawl knowing,
The plantation will come up on my left.

And on cue the king of the macropods bounds out.
The kangaroo slips on the icy surface,
Rises, hops into the streaming light of my headlights,
It comes again, and slips again.
But I have seen it in plenty of time.
I stop, it clears the fence,
And lives to see another frosty night.

Resuming my slow journey,
I curse the carnage of the 'plantation zone.'
I pass mouldering carcass after carcass.
Nearing home I am calmer,
But.....
I see it, yet there is no avoiding the collision.

"Boonk, Boonk!"