You bring your prized bull
back to the barn at first frost.
The hay is cut and dried
and baled and young steers
follow you to the stock tank
leaving hoof prints in the frost.
The days hang on.
There are still bands of chokecherries
behind your house, potatoes
to be dug up, clusters of monarchs
roosting in the sunflower field,
and your neighbor’s lambs
graze along the fence. Drones float
around the beehives.
Soon the sun will rut
with elk and magpies
drunk on chokecherry drupes,
red beaks a dead giveaway.
From your kitchen window you watch
and laugh
as they stumble around the yard.
You have the good sense to join them,
sipping from a bottle of homemade wine.
Suppers are less lonely
in such company.
