the local bull

the local bull
his balls heavy with top spin
his pasture field too abstract for grass
the hard dirt like an engraving on stone,
scratched by hooves and horn and
bursts of penetrating rain
a gun metal grey sky
smoking puffs of clay clouds
swirling around his wet ringed nose
roots and rocks as well as sand
the twisted tree
a white shed for shelter while the
cold winds blow:
so sure of himself
he went to work on his rest day
using the unlocked back door
of his favorite arena
not too far from the herd
stuffing himself with momentary pleasure
between her legs.