This is a sketch I made to illustrate the loneliness of this graceful beast in the wilderness as he lets out a bellow. Whilst engaged in this pursuit, the following poem came to mind (partly autobiographical):

In these wastelands, withered and sere,
My bellows ring out crisp and clear
But no ears to my blare will bend;
No echo back to mine will wend.

To the four winds are those notes blown
Which lament my existence lone.
They jar with strains in a raised key
That herald the proud 'King of Me'.

Happy viewing and have a wonderful weekend whatever you've got planned! R