Sunday, June 5, 2022

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

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