Not quite cold enough for bright colors yet,
for frost and flies’ retreat, for the drift
of chimney smoke and horses’ breath
on the slow drawl of dawn. The grumbling
bulls begin to bellow, announce their prowess,
trumpet their intentions thirty days away
from being family men, their primal duties
rippling beneath their dusty hides. Not quite
old enough to forget, it’s almost Halloween.
drycrikjournal 