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Ripe for the Pickin'

Ryan Farrar


The cows are ripe for the pickin’
As the Silent Fields lay hushed in covert observation.
The grass is saturated with chilly dew
In the April midnight
And a facetious crew is lurking on the prowl,
Singling out a wallowing stray.
Their bellies scuttle along the ground
Keeping the endeavor hidden deep in the dirt.
A monstrous bellow rings out from the herd behind
Disquieting the boys’ ranks.
“She hear us?”
“No, let’s move!”
Stalking their prey in a standard circular tactic,
They carefully filter in around the heifer.
After a series of incoherent hand gestures
And reaffirming nods,
They arise from their bellies and rush toward the night’s destiny
As the Moon lays fold to oval spots blotched on an ivory canvas,
Exposing the target’s primary position.
And after one unconscious shake of her unwieldy head,
A nudge parade thwarts her position
And ground beef is served upright.
The ever-present enemy whoops as they gloriously vacate the scene,
Returning to their forts.
Mission Accomplished!