Young Devon Shorthorn Bull

In warm meadows this bull
Ripens, gently. He is a pod
Of milky seed, not ready yet.
Not liking to be alone, he
Drifts on neat feet to be near
His herd, is sad at gates
When one is taken from him. There’s
No red in his eye, he does not
Know he’s strong, but mildly
Pushes down hedges, can carry
A fence unnoticed on his broad
Skull. His flat back measures
The horizon. Get a ladder, look
Over him. Dream that, one by one,
The far fields fill with his children, his soft daughters.