Bravo Toro
Bravo Toro!
Snorting and bloodied in the mid-day sun,
he paws the ground. His angry eye is fixed.
He charges and the matador is spun
off balance, tangled in his cape, he trips.
His suit of lights impaled and tossed aloft,
transfixed, a crumpled rag doll, motionless,
the crowd is silenced. Yet again he’s tossed.
A deep groan from the crowd. The bull, possessed,
exultant in his own in-bred finesse,
senses the blood of generations past
course through his fighting frame until, at last,
distracted and victorious he makes way.
This bull will live to fight another day.
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