Amble up to the top of the pasture
crowned with the hundred year old tulip tree
commanding all approaches, barking out
warnings in a tongue of concentric ring
tones, a great shaded rasp for twitching flanks,
dark sword of morning shadow swallowed whole
in the bleached seconds before the boiling
sun unsheathes the blue blade to battle night.
Circle down to the nut brown button pond
when the field runs red and the air turns cool,
our abrading tongues twinning in concert,
transforming the white block of the salt lick,
abstract expression of utter cow-ness.