If I Could Draw a Celtic Knot

On the yellow-fringed curves
out of Crestone, a yak herd.

Two black bulls lock horns
at 7 am, joined by a third.

Slowing down to observe,
my eye floats above pasture,

looks down upon their rut-knot,
laughs at the thought

of drawing a triple head-butt—
a symmetry, a trinity, of yak lust.


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