Lulu's Cow Has a Calf

The grass, just about dry,
is canary, clothed in the evening sun,
now sinking beyond the colorful portrait
canvassed on nature’s abundant spread;
a brilliant form, painted by fall’s seasoned fingers.

The cool breeze funnels through valleys
carved into towering crags,
and gently commands the trees to stir,
while prompting nebulous wits to think of wintry smiles.
A lonely guinea hen begins a boisterous chatter,
moon-stricken;
a crack at preserving a cogent mind.

Water lilies, a daub of pink and white,
caressed by the sun’s slight light,
settle buoyantly amid a few roaming rain clouds,
but secluded from toadstools sowed in animal droppings
on the mucky banks,
which bring about a stagnancy in the tributary.
The waterfowl soar across the blue in a unique motif
to slice the resisting wind, and ride the up-lift.
 Young goats ramp on the giant shaft of a fallen oak tree,
and Lulu’s cow has a calf, a male calf.

The bovine, English-bred, is a burden to his mother.
Round and apathetic; he lurches like a drunk.
 His back is a toilet for egrets and sand-pipers.
He impedes the progress of the herd,
and the bellowing is far too concentrated around the stream,
where, on tranquil days, sad reflections trickle away.
If anyone should inquire why life around here is such a drag,
Your best reply should be:
Lulu’s cow has a calf, a male calf.