Young ne
cks strain over, under, and between others in chaotic symphony;
all searching for the cool quench of a stinging hay-borne thirst.
I stand above, protected by the rafters,
Paralyzed by the din.
None are satisfied, but a few might dare to stretch their virginal tongues to the moldy trough.
They wail and whimper for space, sustenance, relief, freedom.
But poised for the slaughter, at once, vainly,
We are beaten and annihilated—not yet evolved.
(On an auction house in Virginia at night)-NGM, 7/23/3).