Pastoral
       

Cattle are a black weight on the light sway of land that was once
prairie. The wind pulls at it, wantful; they appear to hold it in place.

Though it was the cattle that ate away the native grasses.
Perhaps the impression is scenic because their necks are bent

with the downward stroke of feeding. I could say the oil derricks
too are feeding, with enormous avian pecks.

Or that they are nodding in assent. Yes, yes, we are allowed
so much. Let us strike, again, the pose of plenty.

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Copyright © 2016 Rose McLarney All rights reserved
from Birmingham Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission