before the door opens and the pony crashes in with hoof-dirt and flicky
muzzle. You ordered eggs and toast but Pony’s got the order wrong. You
don’t feel like complaining, so you take the chomped grass and lay out
its clumpy wet mass on the desk. There’s clover in there, but you don’t
feel lucky. You say, Thank you, Pony. I love your ragged mane and old crock
teeth. And you take your time with the grass breakfast. You think, in
hard times you might have to eat grass and clover. There may be a time
for learning how to graze, to pluck sweet halms from the fields and work
them with green teeth; to be a cud-chewer, adept at regurgitation and
infinitely patient with the slowness of cellulose. You might become a
ruminant at last on the empty, philosophical hills.
