On Modest Mussourgsky's "Bydlo"

A shape appears
and is gone,
comes into view,
disappears, until,
the spot blotting the sun,
a cartload of hay,
takes shape.

Emerging, the wagon,
oxen-drawn, a juggernaut
pulled by two thousand
pounds rolls between fields--
grinding dirt, crushing
stones.

Sweating flanks
of coarse, matted hair
causes slow, rhythmic
hammering, dull thunder
as hooves pound earth.

The ground moves
to the sound of these
hardened tympani.

Beats and wagon pass,
processional,
as if solemn
and then recede
slowly
out of sight.

A wake is left:
strong pungent odor
of musk mixed
with the sweet sharpness
of the cut stalks being carried
to the village beyond.