The mule stands trembling
at the bottom of the canyon.
It has the means of escape
but doesn't do a thing.
If it would open its eyes
it would see the planks
right under its hooves
zig-zagging dizzily up
the cliff to the plateau
where a sea of grass
up to my waist stretches
to the horizon.
Surely it can smell
the grass. Surely it
doesn't want to become
bits and pieces churning
in a buzzard's gut,
a pile of bleached bones
offering shade to locusts.
But that's the path it's on.
I'll give it a few more
minutes. No way am I
going back down there.
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