(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
