I’d guess she kicked a biting fly, then scrambled
uphill as solid earth began to fray
and gravel slithered underfoot and brambles
tore. She fell. No doubt it was that way.
But I’d rather think she heard a child chanting
rhymes and, cud forgotten, stood entranced
and watched the show; and found her pastures wanting.
While dishes and spoons, fiddles and moons all danced,
she tried a caper, an airborne pirouette.
A crunch of metal is not a fair reward
for a heifer dreaming of something more: rosettes
between her horns, parades of stars. Out-scored
by gravity, she still got a chance at fame.
Sometimes, the thing that matters is your aim.