My grandma wears army boots
and tromps in them for miles,
through cow pies and cactus and
noxious cheatgrass, side-stepping
rattlers on her way to the cattle.
"That old B-572," she says, deftly
whipping up potatoes on the stove,
"that red one, she was the meanest
old thing we ever saw. Broke the fence
twice." A dash of salt.
"Toughest meat you ever tasted."
