rambunctious as a spring lamb, it

walks jauntily, whistles, tips its cap

at pretty girls in voluminous

red skirts; winks

at the youngish nun

whose covert wimple does not quite disguise

her blush;

buys a round of drinks at the pub; laughs

uproariously at the middling jokes

of aged professors (thereby making them all

wits)

& now it stands, straightens

its festive, peacockesque bow-tie 

– a gift, no doubt, from some glorious

conquest/colourspangled dawn –

strolls, nonchalant as a cowboy cat,

into the sunset

& sleeps, wrapping itself

in the wide white stars:

waiting, watching,

ready.