Where does this shofar come from? I stand, hooves split between the rocks, head heavy from a weight I feel but have never seen. I rely on that weight as I rely on my parents, as we rely on our little lambs. There across the yellow valley, beyond the porcupine grasses, I see my nemesis, my rival, angry-eyed, neck arched, knees slightly bent. His approach is steady. Smoke rises from flared nostrils. He wants what I have, and he’s ready to take it. My confidence—it falters all at once, like a child’s rhyme. How can I know my horns are even there? My head unbends, weightless. He turns as if to walk away from me, and I, from him. Ahead of me now, a peninsula of rocks cascading up — to a bluff—and I wish it were this easy: simply turn. Walk away. Propelled by our fears in the right direction that is wrong. My heart beats hard between my legs. In a moment, we will turn back and face one another and then in a clatter of driving hooves and blasted rocks and exploding clods of earth we will charge. In a moment we will meet, and here I am, defenseless. But it’s time. Turning now, I see his horn, swirling with royal light, and in his horn, I realize my own. Feel the sudden press of them, their lethal curve, a forward gleam. It’s his horn you will have, not mine. I raise my head, scratching at the dirt, and wonder: Where does a poem come from?