Europa

When she opened the door, she never expected him to be so
charming.

He extended one softly gleaming black hoof,
and pawed delicately at the threshold.

His muzzle, his eyes and the tips of his horns
were as black as his hooves.
Every hair of him was frosty white.
He wasn't very big, or massive,
as a Brahma bull would have been,
with neither its pendulous gross dewlaps
nor its slobbering jaws.

He was as powerfully gracile, deer-like
his shoulders and swelling neck brave as
Toro bravo's.

His muzzle was urbane and civil.
He breathed lightly through clean dry nostrils.
She was at a loss how to address him.

"Your Honor?
"Your Dishonor?
"Your Unholiness?"

"Your Horniness," he suggested lowly,

His bovine lips formed a human expression
so easily
that she never thought how queer,
to see a bull smile.

She opened her own mouth in surprise:
"How did you know what I was thinking?"

"You're my people," he lowed suggestively.
"There's not a moment of the day
but what I watch and walk among you."

She stepped backwards
without any thought ot reslstingg his entrance,
prompted by his courtesy
to be courteous in return.

Silently as a stalking cat,
his dainty black hooves trod forward
over the hardwood floor.
Mr. Walker glowed
as though the sunlight of full day
were flooding the midnight studio.

She followed without blinking,
mesmerized by the working of his superb bones
under the moon-white suede hide.
He was just as black between his hind legs,
firmly pendulous as a proper bull should be;

Oh, Lord.

He was the answer to her prayers.