Concerning Bob the Bull

         (Lincoln, California)

I'm feeding sweet green clover

to a black and white bull

under powder blue sky. Through

silver fencing, I poke the offering,

a gesture of friendship to Bob

the bull, bedeviled by black flies

and close farm heat. Bob stares

and sniffs. Leans into me, almost

breaks my hand--a gesture

of friendship. I talk, he listens.

He snorts, sucks cud, and grunts.

I listen. I poke more green past

that glue-thick slobber on his black

lips, past his keyboard of square

ivory teeth and onto a pale pink

slab of tongue. Bob accepts

the clover without chewing.

He has a lot going on.

His patience in the midst

of fly-swarms and de-horning

outstrips Zen perfection. I tell

Bob of his greatness. Mourn

with him his lack of cow

companionship. His mucous

drips like icicle melt. We'll not

meet again--a scheduling thing.

I feel a sadness as sweet as

Bob's inner pools of cud.

How fine it would be one day

to hear Bob's story from Bob.

hans ostrom 2022