Old hands still hold it, a cowboy roams free.

A calf is born slick. Behind the fence barbs,
a coyote stands, greedy eyes glassy,
dry coat without shine, fox tails for fur.
 
In a field so dry, it is blown away.
Brown golden grasses, burned from bright green.
Down the gravel driveway ruts, killdeer live.
 
No grass or padding to soften the place.
Eggs laid just like stones.  Laid among the stones.
Distraction upon encroaching.
An alarm sounding, struggling broken wing.
Focused magician, the eggs hatched fast.
No sign left behind, baby killdeer like
miniature moms parading the lawn.
Precocial babies can already walk.

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Some poets followed by susan morris...

Mary Oliver Olga Gavrilovskiy