I wade dry straw at twilight,
the crepuscular explorer drifting
an umber forest, anticipating winter
under a gold-foil moon, at arm's length,
thumb-size and lingering,
find a dark ram prone on a cedar stump,
harem circled, bleating softly,
the sentinel over fallow fields
where dusky deer paw stubbornly
for sugar beet leavings in a cool veil of air,
the first day of moose killing
when the North is closed
for blood-letting, men only and neutrals
constitutionally.
Behind me in a tall window
a lady of blonde tresses
massages her breasts, to keep
the flow of milk warm
before the freeze.