There is a darkness coming
a little at first, just ahead of the rest
His breath is a slow yawn
it draws in a shade
a cold and a rustling
everything sleeping, drying
An idiot-ox striding
His March drawing blood from flower
herb from mouth
The stampede lasts for months
He is the Harvester
hoof and horn
giggling and dribbling
with the sun on his back
and snow in his mouth