The framed photograph of a bull bison 
hangs above a roll-top desk where our son 
in his high chair can see it while he eats: 
tonight, hamburger mixed with puréed pears.
He waves at it, chewing a spoonful of meat,
this image captured with a hunter’s eye.
The beast in profile stands on a dirt path
before a range of pine-forested hills, 
a radio tower’s needle-thin spur
barely visible on a distant ridge
civilization’s only suggestion. 
One day we will tell our son about food –
explain to him the source of much protein,
though sparing many pertinent details: 
blood and manure in a copious flow
powering agriculture’s massive wheel, 
how a cow sometimes resists being milked
and will buck her hind legs or trample you. 
No, those we want him to learn on his own
when he is old enough to handle it –
ready to make his own choices, perhaps
different from those we made on his behalf.