The honey red heifer is birthing,
a difficult calving under monstrous
roiling dark bellied storm clouds,
She has chosen to offer up her gift,
under a twisted, gnarled, ancient tree ,
the only old guardian of the pastures.
She bellows not understanding it is necessary.
In the midst of her agony the Hyades
conspire to muffle her wild-eyed complaints.
The bowels of the fields are bulging,
constipated with swollen verdant seeds,
anticipating an elixir from above.
These grassy tarns of seasonal
vivacity will explode, grasping
the pastures fertile beckoning thighs,
a rapturous rupture of the soil, an
orgasm of awakening to satisfy
the heavenly rain spiked thrusts.
In the midst of April’s tribulation
a nocturnal nuisance has arrived,
raucous, unyielding in its annoyance.
Somewhere in the fence hedge, above
natures pious conversation, piercing
the vernal bacchanal of the night,
a feathered creature speaks in
full tenor timbre, Pavarotti incarnate,
it choruses the drama of this Greek
tragedy, played out in the amphitheater
of creation. Will there be life, or, the
tearful damning gloom of death.
Thor’s mighty hammer dispels
the Stygian darkness with crackling
light, a proctor quieting the class.
With a pause, sweet as the kiss of dew,
there is a gasp of all the calamity.
Mother Nature gathers her children, watching.
Life has arrived in a wet gelatinous
blanket, loved with soft brown eyes
and a lick for the first calf of spring.
©2014, Donald Harbour