The sun beat down, a great sleepless eye, hot and bloodshot and glaring. Far below, an old man sat, shaded by a lonely tree on a lonely island. The old man was not glaring at anything. He was planted, resigned, as the wind pushed by his papery skin on its relentless and unending quest to find someplace better to be. The old man didn't have any place better to be, or at least he didn't think he did. He sat and listened to the seeking breeze, and the hungry ocean that was lapping up the sand of the island, and he listened to the goat.
The goat wasn't listening to anything, or didn't seem to. The man could hear it eating the grass, hear strings and tiny molecular mechanisms snapping and shattering as the goat wrenched the plants from their home by the roots. The goat was eating the grass with a sort of single minded determination, as though the grass had done something to offend it or as though there was an infinite amount of grass available to eat, which was, in fact, not the case.