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He wears thick gloves when he strings the barbed wire,
fashioning a thorny fence from prickly metal spines,
reminding me that cattle like to know the boundaries,
the edges of a pasture, clever green grass hesitating
on the borders of a place meant for those heavy bodies,
warm and mellow like the faded flowers breathing silently,
hesitating on the promises of windswept shadows,
blades of tender stems mingled together with briars,
leave traces of the endless night, fading and vanishing,
history on the webs where a spider leaves its warning.

He pulls the barbed wire with authority, skilled, gloved hands,
twisting the wire despite the spikes bristling and prickling,
stabbing at the harmless skin, naked from the wrist up,
despairing of the endlessness of adventures in the pasture,
where those cattle graze, creating a quiet maze with their gentle
muzzles, always working, chewing, nibbling at the tender shoots,
grass so green it feels like the softest carpet poured out on the hills,
where we can dream, even when the cows don’t understand,
where we can dream, even when the cows have the upper hand,
where we can dream, even when the cows don’t have a brand.
	even though the cows think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence!

Fencing the pasture in rows of barbed wire, where each silver strand
enslaves one huge heart,…
some might tell you it is only a cow,
we raise them for meat, for milk, for money,
we raise them for the farm who needs their foraging,
to keep the land picked clean and sparkling,
pastures spotless, like the farmer’s first calf,
but, it is more than just a cow,
it is the moment before that big heart beats,
throbbing, rhythmic as the clearest streams,
pouring out the flow of grace, subtle and soothing,
flowing downstream where the hopes and dreams,
remember that these cows are a part of this land,
a part of the plan… sacrificed by the past, the present,
remembers when nothing else can still doubts,
cows breath hope into the dreams who flow, rivers – somehow broken.

Fencing is a promise to the cows,
a part of the land, a part of the rivers,
a part of the wind, a part of this freedom
that comes to the one who remembers to thank God
for the land, the rivers, the wind, the freedom,
those cows who must somehow understand, the grass,
though greener on the other side of the fence,
is still sweeter here where they’ve been penned,
confined by the barbed cage, where they’re
sure to realize the grass is their maze,
through a melancholic daze, 
where they graze, and praise,
with moist eyes and heavy breathes,
pure as the soundless sea of wind song and history,
as he continues on and on… crafting a fence
from the barbs who remind those cows,
they are loved by someone!
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