He falls out of canyons cut between the steep
hills to the dry-grass shadows of sycamores
to watch the new calves nurse and play
themselves to sleep on short-cropped green
along the creek, waiting until first-time mothers
leave to graze. All the world is good to fresh
pastoral dreams, as the big dog meanders
among them, touches noses, tears a hamstring
holds and muffles a short cry in its throat.
Half-way up the hill, he looks back, full
of himself and the heavy half-a-hip in his belly
as the dirt flies, as a swarm of yellow meat bees
takeover before the heifer returns. She stands
vigil, trying to bawl her baby back to life
and follows as he drags it off into the night.
drycrikjournal 