A Bull, Catalonia

Lean, tough.

Muscle built him,

Bunched up around his neck

and his horns menaced low.

Once a fighting bull of some pedigree,

now for the most part a statement,

a morality.

His pen spacious.

Trough watered.

Hay bailed.

Still.

Something in the autumn breeze

that ruffled the auburn leaves

of nearby trees

raced his breath.

The breeze cut short,

the bull but sighed and wandered

off to lay in the shade and

squint at the sky.

Author's Note

This poem is written after an encounter with someone who is against bull-fighting to the point of being unreasonable, and to the point of being openly judgemental of people who are open minded about it. I hope to illustrate with this poem that things, least of all bull fighting, are that simple. As for the title, bull fighting is banned in Catalonia (a province of Spain).