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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.