For ten thousand years these patient herds
have waited, their ochre backs
straining against winds that never cease.
Charcoal spears have wounded them,
and miniscule figures of men
dance in endless silent celebration around them.
They wait in darkness, peeking
out of shadows into stray cones
of light cast up by the descendants of hunters.
And still the cows are heavy with calf,
and still the bulls toss painted horns,
and we take comfort in the endurance
of art and hunger.