Mirages hover like angels fanning the fields.
We see them in summer, a shimmer of wings.
Our stubborn steers ignore them, wading dry acres.
They hook their horns in invisible robes,
shaking their heads to graze. For them,
the sky is falling, the grass is manna.
Having lost all hope when they entered
the round corral as calves, they stuff themselves
with grass even in drought, as if all pastures
of the world were theirs. They never wonder
if God’s in His heaven. Stubble is heaven enough,
alfalfa paradise. Watching steers graze
in a lake of shimmering light, seeing angels
fanning themselves, we wonder if even they
could make it rain, how many spin on a windmill,
how many squeezed would make a decent cloud.
Leave a Reply