She grazes in a meadow, sulfur blossoms spilling
from her jaw.
At this moment she seems so calm, she could be holy,
if what that means is something like being
wholly unaware of the good she gives,
how even her rooting tills the soil
and even her shitting ferries the seeds
and even her bathing is a joy to behold
as I am beholding her this morning
as she leans over a water hole, her shadow first
and then her reflection on the skin of the water,
then the splash as she enters, the pond opening,
rippling, and the scritch as she scrubs
her head with her paw, the great planet
of her head that she dunks and raises, shaking
the water in wide arcs, spraying
the lens of the hidden camera. And now
she climbs out, water rivering off her fur.
She is drying that huge head
in the long grasses.
And here she hunkers
over a bison carcass, slowly ripping free
the shoulder. Those precision instruments
that work with an ease that seems—yes—delicate.
Blood stains the river and stains
the snowbank and stains the rock.
Vessel carrying the chemicals of life—
hair and bone, flagella and bloom.
She carries them, lumbering forward
as she sinks her teeth and feeds.