Cud

There were a series         of three animals          - wise men I propose -         interchangeably looking         (throwing off their guises'         as non-sentient brutes),         scrounging the grass         (eyes foddering me)         chewing on looks,         cud-like,         -one a black         goat shorn of         his devil look         and a burro,         mood entranced, in         armour of mangey velvet.         II         Swinging bells,         making me believe         the twilight caper         that morning lay         more in reindeer's         breath than any         solidarity with         oat or hoove.         III         A strange lot,         they'd ramrod their         gaze with blare         of lightning,         peering into some         primordial instinct         one normally tucks         onto a sleeve or         cranny when thunder strikes.         IV         Pelting rain,         the white mare,         streaked more like         a camel with her         own dung and manure,         (shadings differ)         the sun a tingling dew         refreshing cantaloupes;         the sparkle of their walk         investigating me         in solid cacophony of faith.         V         A form of worship, to be exact,         the Christ-child         in a manger         we four in shared trance         a growing sluggishness         to their fear building         by prospect of food         and inter-species bond.