In December’s amber light, the sun
stares beneath the limbs of trees aflame
again. And from long, crisp shadows,
a few wild gods dance with winter’s chill.
No call for calendars when every canyon
rings with the bellows of bulls looking
for work, or a fight, reducing fences to
barbed wire nightmares, splintered posts
with long excavations either side of tangles.
During nights of no moon, the big talk fires
testosterone and fence repair, purpose here
as the sweet fragrance of cows fills the air.