I’ve lost touch, deaf
to the muses, immune
to the need to wrestle
words into a gravid line:
heifer down
with a dead calf
too big to bear—
winch
prolapse
bullet
to feed the coyotes
and golden eagles.
Our fuzzy recollection of the sire
through the wire
surrounded by a milling herd
of virgins for a day—
thick-necked brute
whose dreams came true
how many times?
No romantic whispers
in the breeze, acorns
and oak leaves falling—
we feed hay,
look for trouble
and pray for none.
drycrikjournal 
plainspoken, alive … a beautiful poem. – tony
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Thank you, Tony, feedback always welcome.
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Your words today make me realize how wonderful your poetry is to feast upon with my morning coffee, and renew my love for poems.
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Thanks, A, for your kind words, been having trouble hearing my muse lately.
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The muse is there; in a whisper on the breeze.
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