edge peering past silent trees into fields
where spilled corn awaits their urgent hunger--
statue still, like tree boughs standing alert,
the herd waits for some alarm or signal,
warning them away from the spilled harvest.
In the hour before sunset these patient
beasts wait--and when assured this field is full
of only fading sun and cut, sweet grains,
they, one by one, amble in the stubble,
heads bent, nosing the ground, flicking kernels
into their stomachs to pad their haunches
with fat and a new coat of brown-white fur.
Soon the green covered land will be buried
beneath a shroud of white, enveloping
snow, harshly caressed by sharp freezing winds.
Then fodder will be scarce--the grains buried,
frozen tight in winter's iron jawbone.
Always, at the edge, one or two, heads high,
scouring the shape of the tilled and slopping land--
the companions regard the horizon,
alert for the moments of intrusion
that will send the herd stampeding into
the forest thickets along the field's edge.
Concealed among the shocks of a lean-to
shelter I wait--my sharpshooter is primed.
John Daleiden 10-11-99
Oblique: A Poetry Journal Copyright © 2005 John Daleiden You Are Visitor Number
