Pasture on Sunday
Amanda Reynolds

There is Zen-like peace

in the chewing of cud,

the cut-and-shuffle of teeth and endive.

Baubles of spit settle near mushrooms;

daisies garnish a vegetable dish.

My dog stops chasing crickets,

suddenly enlightened by

two oracles of indolent bovine eyes.

What passes between them

is creature fervor, mammalian ardor,

tail swish and rumbling halt.

The rest of the Angus herd

stamps platitudes into terra firma.

On Monday the sheep come.