My black-and-gray rooster crows.The sound of birds’ chatterfilters through the morning.I open the icy gateand walk the familiar trail.

A cool, damp hazeswirls around me.I carry the rusty bucketfilled with a ton of feed;It pours like sifting sandinto the concrete trough.

Cowbells reverberateas they prance over the hill.Stopping beneath my willow tree,I watch them eat.

I turn aroundto head home,But first I pick the firstWild buttercup.