Three climb the hill behind the house:
my master with the yearling cow and
me. The dawn-light
glinting sidelong off the heifer's glossy
hide is a memory of the morning star
reflecting its own shadow. As we
walk out past the fence gate posts
into the winter pasture (now in bloom), the gray
grass swells in the fickle breeze.
I hear the sea swells move across the grain
and splash against my side unrhythmically.

The man, who walks with purpose in his stride,
holds limply wood and steel there at his side
or shifts the load to point into the sky.
The quiet beast, chewing, climbs the hill
from sunrise-side toward its falling down.
I guess she thinks this Eden, (this meadowland
unspoiled) and she the sole inheritor
of a paradise of grain.

But here where we can see the earth
stretch out beyond itself, we pause and tie
the yearling cow to some eternal oak.
The dawn-light in crescendo
echoes off her onyx hide. A crimson sky
offsets a gem of silver on the rise. Now
wood and steel rise coldly through
the chilled mid-morning air. Chewing she
stares down at me her sombre bovine stare.
He raises up his single arm and heavily exhales.
Her stare now without object falls
beside the hallowed tree in rippling
peals of thunder that vibrate
through the dew. She lies where she
belongs upon the earth, black
hide and life-blood mingle with the dirt.

Now two descend the hill into the yard.
My master's path is to the barn
to finish what's been done while I
wrack my mind for how
she might have sinned.
I don't think I will climb that hill again.
I don't think I will climb that hill again...