Chaff
by Len Kuntz


In the morning the cattle would come,
be it still dark or foggy,
rainy or smoky.
They knew my scent,
my whistle,
and the twist in my step,
me a boy-farmer then,
with a tablet stuffed inside my boot.

As they worked the hay with their jaws,
I read them my new words,
and every once in awhile
one Guernsey would jerk its head
with ears perked
and two stunned eyes,
as if it were actually listening,
as if what it was hearing might really be
poetry.






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