Forest green hills slope away to valleys
disappearing . . .
Meandering rails of split wood wander aimlessly
out of sight . . .
Breezes caress deep grassy pastures
(wildflowers tossing their glorious tresses)
where stately heads bow to their foraging work.
So much grass (can’t miss a blade),
so little time.
Glossy coats glisten in the sun
automated horse-hair flyswatters set to swish
intermittently;
turn together, surge ahead–
no trumpets call, no bells sound, but–
“They’re off!”
