The aurochs in the mist (October 6th 2015)
It’s the print in the black mud,
So fresh it steams and bubbles,
Vast hoof-print holding water
Like a dark clay vessel cupping
The rain as it cascades off my hat,
That tells me I am not alone.
Further up the path, I smell him,
Rich, musky dung in shining heaps
More evidence of his passing,
Though the mist obscures the sight.
If I go forward, we will surely meet
And I, poor feeble human, will
Perhaps be mashed into the mud,
Trampled by razor-tipped hooves
Tossed on coat-rack horns
And discarded as easily as the bracken
That catches on those lethal spears.
Breath in clouds,
He emerges from the mist
A she, lesser in size,
Docile as her grand-sire
Was assuredly not,
Pauses at the sight of me
Standing in her path,
Tosses her head, not me,
Before turning back
And returning whence she came.