When Rosco died
we had to leave him where he
last lay down,
fetlocks curled under like a great, dark dolmen,
creating his own monument to potency.
.
We had no choice, his ton of weight
impossible even to tractor-lift
in the muckiness of winter.
We feared he would be hauled about by foxes,
certainly scavenged by crows, yet,
they strangely
left him alone, till he gently subsided into hill
like Ender's giant.
He is here, still, a kind of totem.

.
Small birds flit
blithely past or twee-prop
on one jerky-dry shoulder, whisking air
with waggle-tails,
keeping bright, wary eye open
for wandering meals.
Rosco is a convenient platform
and even courting
is not exempt and the performance seems
entirely appropriate.
.
He is no longer glossy-black, magnificent
with buffalo-shaggy neck,
he has faded to red-brown, pine-cone-shade.
The once-proud head
of the great progenitor is twisted and bent
and the bones of his face mandible-out
like Michelangelo's slaves
but I
remember him differently.
.
I remember him
as a torrent of testosterone-fuelled-fun
when we would try to rodeo-cut him out of the mob.
He could never resist a laddish gallop.
Course he knew he was off to impregnate,
enormous smirk
on face
but never missed a chance
to stir up mischief.
Head down, tail up, stiff member poking pinkly out,
bunting me off my bike with a single swipe
and having done so,
having made his point - pointedly, slowing to a trot,
allowing Ed to maddeningly
putt putt putt him leisurely to sweeter pastures,
head held
up,
rapscallion-high.

Rapscallion - a mischievous person.