Scratching Post

I woke to the shaking of my morning shelter,
The sun had risen not, the feeder still quiet.
The disorienting fog ruled
and my rifle clanked against the floor.

I panicked - what kind of crazy mob
is heckling my adolescent self
in the middle of a pasture
outside George West, Texas?

Then I listened, poked my head out the window,
through the thick, wet fog I can see
a large hump and droopy ears -
I am nothing more than a scratching post
for an itchy Brahman bull.

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