Dobbin. for Mike Ondaatje

We found dead animals in our sagebrush hills,
every day it seems now, deer, heads of
unimaginable elk. Or rattlesnake killed
by some kids we likely knew, upside down.
wrong coloured in the burnt couchgrass.

Nota bene: I don’t know where this poem comes from. Is Dobbin the poet? This is one of these times where I forgot to write down the book and page number, because I thought I would remember it.