through a field
that lays on a long seam of brown
like a yellow quilted checkered
with tan patches. There's a pond
with water that ripples when fish
try to gobble bubbles they think
are bugs without wings.
There are three bulls, one standing
at the shore up to his knees, his
tongue falling out of his lips
lapping up mouthfuls of water.
The other two sit with their horns
pointing towards the wind,
watching blades of grass rip
from the ground.
Grey clouds roll over patches
of blue and spill balls of light
into the air. Bull horns catch
wind as it bends leafless trees,
their naked tops touching the ground.
An invisible knife cuts the cloud
bloated with water, turning the road
running along the field into
a black mirror. The bull removes
himself from the pond, walks over
to a tan patch and becomes
what happens at dusk.
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