Those two quiet buffalo who stood

so close to the electric fence I could

almost push my hand through

the loose wires and touch them.

How they refused to move or saw

no point in moving, even as the traffic

streamed by on the interstate

and the sun beat down on their heads.

Chewing a tuft of alfalfa, bowed head

to bowed head, flies crawling out

of their ears. How easy it was to see

beauty in the dry fields beyond them.

The way they possessed the circumference

completely, ignoring the Cesenas

and cattle cars riddled with holes,

the calico horse in the next field over.

And how, in their large eyes faded

to lacquer, to something you paint

over knots on a barn, I could see

my own face in the amber reflection,

shiny and miniature, watching me

watching them watching me back

through the audible hum of the line.