Where we came from, wild oxen filled the sky with dust.
Their image was deftly composed, daubed and blown onto the rock..
Longhorn cattle eternally run on the walls of torchlit caves.
The grass in their teeth melts into cud
whereby milkshakes and cheeseburgers are born.
Rain fills the hoofprints in the pasture.
The coyote laps, the crow observes.
The jay proclaims and the herdsman swings the gate.
When the milking is done, the herdsman retires.
On the wall of his cave, torchlight flickers in High Definition.
Out in the barn, the steaming clan of the aurochs rests safe from wolves.
I craft this word-image in the unflickering light of my cave.
Stepping away from the keyboard, I wipe the 1's and 0's from my hands.
The eye of the coyote is on me, the crow is watching.