Dreams of the Donkeys

Here is a picture of the younger donkey,
eyes downcast or canted in mimicry
of  the slant shadows on the grass. Sun fiddles

through his fur, and everywhere he looks
is down, down where the trees kick
their spindly shanks into stories

about devils, about flaxen-maned
jennies asleep in the boughs,
waiting for tallish drinks of princely water

to wake them. Meanwhile, the older donkey is out
of the picture, fretting in more philosophical
pastures. Thirty-odd is too late

for happy endings and magic trees; he needs to know,
do grasses grow up or do they thrust in their roots,
and what do the humans dream? Let them hasten

to their deaths who know not the secret,
sensuous rewards of patience
and the beasts will gather to keen

at the clifftop, to bray for rebirth.
He, white and older than he can endure,
would like to be among them.

—KATIA GRUBISIC

(Originally published Christmas, 2010.)