|Munchers, Bernie White Hatcher|
If I stood by the fence,
called your name, “Bessie, come!”
Would you trot across the pasture like a horse,
eager for an apple? I think not.
You are no Eve, tempted by what you do not know.
Steady as the rain you stand
and go right on, mouth to ground,
munching sweet leaves of grass
while the world spins
and strangers like me pass.
Oh, you may lift your head as if to say,
“Can’t you see I’m working here? Move on.”
At dawn the farmer’s boy comes,
Leans his sleepy head against your steaming flank.
His fingers deft relieve your heaviness;
then he smacks on your rump.
Now you trot — the working girl —down the hill to your favorite spot.