By Sam McCartney

The 
goat’s
head tilts
as I walk past
its eyes fixated, 
a stalk with unsure
candour, considered 
with grace It takes a few 
steps back, then forward with
pace it begins to run and ascends 
the cliff face, with poise and precision
darting on the brink of death, transcends
a mere escape a simple meal this is so much
more, a delicate dance, an encounter, an encore a
playful boast, marvelled, as I raise a toast, to the goat.

Sam McCartney is an aspiring writer, student and administrator from Newcastle, England, who now resides in Glasgow. His work has been previously published in print by Razur Cuts and online by Flash Fiction North.