Quarter ‘til eight before the sun shines
within the thin wedge of ridge and eave
across my desk, black ladies-in-waiting
on blond feed in the shadow of the hillside,
grazing a cool Sabbath higher, mothers
with babies close along the creek—like
last week, Spencer’s track in the canyon’s
cow trail dust after calling the big dog in.
I imagine the eerie squeals of distress,
forty-five minutes of edging closer
to the decoy, suspicious and curious
just before changing his taste for veal.
drycrikjournal 