The spikenard all over their necks. The way carbon
as it huffs from their mushroomy noses.
The bushy seasonal blankets they grow.
That black thunder can peel from their anuses
and they don't so much as grin.
How long they can be silent. How for hours and hours,
they can just be silent. How at sundown they look up
from their oats as you walk toward them.
How deciding you're safe they return to their oats.
The delicious onomatopoeia of nibble and slurp. Them in winter,
birds warming toes on their backs. Them living with cows
and not laughing. Them running, pounding lush fields
in ecstatic, drumline worship: thank you, thank you, thank you,
you, whoever you are who made us. Of course this is for you.