Beautiful poem Dave. I find it unaccountably sad that a little mule sufficiently well known to have the affection of a name bestowed upon it, should have sickened and died alone in the woods, decomposing down to a heap of dis-articulated bones and a skull.
It’s strange, this compulsion to collect skulls. I have two myself in the studio, a ram’s and a fox’s. The fox in particular is a beauty, all flowing, back-sweeping contours, its teeth needle sharp and perfect. It must have died young. Nevertheless like poor old mule Charlie, with no flesh to secure them snugly, the teeth slip their sockets and drop out, a scattering of tiny polished ninepins around her.