They wait, observed with concern and calculation just as their ancestors have been since first corralled by Man,
In every sense, meat on the plate, whether sold and slain elsewhere, or finished on this farm.
They wait, with no idea what for.
And when it comes, they'll still not know:
A curtain quickly drawn -
The cut-off point -
And then oblivion.
They wait, not knowing that they wait,
But waiting all the same.
And standing at this gate,
My busy life stilled a while
In this tranquil scene,
I know that beast and man alike,
Are playing a waiting game.
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