the night black-sparkling, comin’ back
from town in my granddad’s Buick
Electra—we saw the two
big bright lights, out a couple hundred
yards in the south front pasture.
rustlers, said Goggle. stay
in the vehicle. he got out & yelled,
go on. git. we see you.
off they blinked & all that was left was the
hair brush of meadow silhouette
cows & calves w/ star-licked horns
& eyes. don’t have a gun, he said.
not gonna chase ‘em in the dark.
so next morning he went back,
traipsed around in dew-wet grass—
no tracks, no traces,
no carcass, no blood,
no sign of commotion—on the very spot
he was 100% certain. hard to figure,
he told us later. must’ve been those
little green men. this was just a week
before two Angus steers turned up
mutilated on a neighbor’s ranch
& no one ever figured out who did it.