what a pot of lucky stew we bubble now-
the goat, the dwarf, the bitch, the shrew.
they crow across the barnyard's raucous stubble,
where hay is frost and chortles dew:
a mission of confidence clanged in cast iron,
the lid will silence the chosen few.
a frothing banquet of angled limbs
for this a solstice is simmering too.