more farming memories (probably because i am aching to go outside and enjoy the weather)

The Bull

Brett put on his boots to drive the four-wheeler;
I put my retainer in my pocket.
My cousins were still cleaning the sheep shearing,
chasing tufts of wool lilting on the breeze,
settling on the surface of the cow pond.
When he started the engine, my heart jumped - 
Clutched the vinyl seat with my fingernails,
all the while hollering with Brett at the men
in the mud, rakes in hand, toiling while we rode.

Soon we were on the dark side of the hill,
couldn't see the sun past shadows of grass,
and there was The Bull -
grazing, staring, tail whisking flies with fury.
and then The Engine Died -
coughing, sputtering its last dying breath
spitting just enough exhaust to catch His eye;
We froze in our seats, reluctant to breathe
or talk. He snorted fire. He blinked slowly.
We jumped at the same time when he charged us,
leaping into certain manure (or mud),
scrambling like june-bugs flying to the porchlight.
His horns ripped through aluminum siding,
splintering the ATV down the hill.
We saw it land in the ditch, glancing back
as we sprinted, screaming, with arms flailing.

1 comment:

K-ren said...

Crystal...I love this! And I would call this prose poetry...and I would say, you rock at prose poetry!