by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I was looking at my footprints.
I was looking at my shoes.
The footprints did not seem to match.
They might have belonged to a fish
or a flamingo, a minotaur,
or a three legged dog.
I gazed at a cricket jumping in
my footprints. It seemed to
be wearing a tux. My footprints
filled with rain and the tender
cricket fled. A scream from a
nearby bush altered my senses.
A cow with a pair of shoes walked
out of the bush. A cow with a
little girl’s voice walked in
my footprints. It was a mad cow.