(no subject)
fencerows grow old.
long lines of bright wire slowly darken between sun-eaten posts,
gathering the look of the landscape, the crust of age on their hostile barbs,
snatching dust and years from the hurried wind.
in the open emptiness, they remain
while flowers bloom and die and are covered with snows.
I think of bulls and the urge to wander,
the need that drives them to lean against the unforgiving lengths.
there is something deep that resists the many-mouthed pain,
the piercing fires that run through the thick hide to bloodied meat,
the straining of wires, taut and still, as deep-set posts lean and shift in the soil.
a fence is called good if the will to roam is quickly killed.
but should the fire in the silent dark eyes burn
fiercer with every little pain and pressure
until the broken fence bows low,
should the heart of the bull prove stronger
than spiteful, gnawing barbs rusty with the blood and hair of things half-dared,
the farmer grabs his tools and wire
and field-bound, he curses.