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Away from the temma, pokes of scat lay cast over with handfuls of grass caked in wipings and the Dharugs nudged at the turds with the points of their toes. Blackening, hard, juiceless.  Crook pinched a clod in his fingers and split it open.  Wet inside still.  They were not long departed.  He showed Bill.

(Rohan Wilson, The Roving Party)