The wild has been bred out of them,
The beeves above me where I pass
Most evenings spring through fall,
Docile, curious, communal, lifting
Their heavy heads when I speak,
The yearlings sometimes galloping
With me as I go, this country road
So quiet I can hear them chew.
Stop and look into their eyes,
Reflective, huge, unsettlingly deep,
And wonder how they think
Of their short lives,
And what of me?
And what, my fellow wildlings,
What about their souls,
Placid in their innocence?
Oh, not to know.
