The old Indians had time to think, and had a prayer

They muttered at bowstring as they let go the arrow,

Twang, thuck, and a dead deer to eat, or partridge.

They had to eat, but a killing calls for a courage,

And the gods keep count. I have been thinking how

To ask absolution for butchering a family cow.

Wet breather and rump-twitcher. Good chomper and some meat.

We must accomplish a sacrifice, and quick, and neat.

Quick, or the murder will break my breakable heart,

Like yours wanted at the world's corners four apart,

Deep-freeze, market chopping-block, and hot stoves,

Where none remember, as I do you among my meadow loves.

Whether or not you know, I stretched myself uphill,

And eyes down for an hour stared at a square-foot-full

Of bugs, blades, stone-grains, not much of anything,

But making tracks and rustle, a sort of life-liking

With too much time to ask why not. Ear to the ground,

I heard by turf you nearing. Stomp. Thoughtless sound.

Dismounted drift above the bushes between sky

And the roots I had my nose in. Your doubled clump went by

Toward clover and buttercup and small green whatever

I've never smelled better since. Snorter. You old mover.

Ah, that's all over, and a revel well worth while.

Now to be Roman. Now die to my saying the ritual.

Cow brown and white and white and brown, impermanent cow,

Who faithful in the rattle-planked barn let down till now

Sweet milk and warm and unhomogenized as rain,

Smooth-flanked drooler, stuffed with the wagon-green

I in my hay-days sweated and scythed to feed you-

These cold times and carnivoraciousness need you.

Dumb big ambling life, cow, my animal I must kill,

I think it is because there are so many of us. But I'll

Do it. Don't forgive me. Everybody eats somebody.

The noble Romans in their practical minds were ready,

And their priests ready. I have not been taught how

Eating fellow-citizens was a virtue. Lumberer. Morning moo.

Here is a quick way to do it, I'll do it for you, bang.

You are lump. Old maunderer, whose neck-bell rang me

Music two fields away all morning, at noon, and near night,

Now you are for the butcher. Oh but he'll handle you right,

He'll discover profit in your ribs, he'll cleave well,

Nothing left but in my head the clank-clang of that bell.