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Route 52 to Bullville snakes past Cragsmore’s peak
sneaks up the mountain’s bare bulging chest.
Winter’s bald crest with hair plug pine trees are
cognizant of the twisting stream slicing through the canyon below.

Snow sweats vanilla ice cream sculptures,
billowing down the perspiring borders of the boulders,
erecting stalagmite stalactite streamers
composed of unconscious crystals between dimensions.

The red paint of the debilitated barns peeled from the planks,
flaked in layers like skin off a leper.
The twisted, buckled boards were splintered, like fractured bone,
as if tornadoes tore down the walls and Godzilla stomped on the roof.

Metal airplane hanger pole barns have replaced red barns.
None of the dozen Bullville dairy farms has endured,
substituted by thoroughbred horse farms with million dollar fences and
pedigree communities pirouetting on very fertile land.

In these times of hay and honey for sale signs,
clairvoyant cows slosh, their hooves stuck in the slop of manure mud slush,
jaws rotating on feed, pursed nostrils comprehending karma,
making love to me with perceptive and contemplating eyes.