For a hale Hereford cow, all rust-orange brown and shaggy white,
She doesn’t see the world’s color or hear its sound, but smells with
Grunting sniff and tastes with teasing, muscular tongue’s licking.
A patch of sunny dandelions perked on a hillside is a treat to see,
Lapping up light and rubbing clover in an afternoon breeze, but
The cow wonders after its aroma and contemplates its flavor.
Other cattle are pleasant creatures of heather. Soft on the palate,
Easy to know and digest in personality. The Hereford ruminates
Both thought in long consideration and cud in gentle chewing.
The randy horse on the next hill is nettle, attractive but rash.
The foxes, seen here and there, are phragmite, whisking near
Water and vale, darting quickly in the unpredictable wind.
Those crows are garlic scape, tangy and undesirable in quantity.
The bobcat stretches lithely, barbed thistle both flashing in
Appearance, musky in aroma, and always hinting fresh pain.
Interrupting her often, the goat, swung testicles bobbing as
Black walnuts and just as dank, is kudzu, always eating, rude,
Satisfied only with being unsatisfied, and taking up her turf.
She samples here and there, herself rhododendron, hardy
But soft, sweet-smelling and unassuming with the rest.
Chewing her fill on the hillside opposite where I sit, my smell is
Obscured by distance. She might like me, for I am tobacco,
Dried and burned and tasted by others, or perhaps not, for I
Am also the brisket I ate for lunch, and that might be awkward.