pastoral



from serpa south to cacela velha
sheep won’t meet our eyes,
faces buried in their graze
as if they breathed green

cows too weary and weighted
to turn their slow, heavy heads
to the road as we ride on quiet tires,
jackets flapping at our backs

no one waves from windows
of passing cars

horses cliquish and cool
as we wobble uphill,
coast gracefully down

but donkeys, always solitary,
watch with soft, dark eyes,
nose over fenceposts at our scent,
wait patiently just to see us
glide through the afternoon