Our slice of earth, cobalt blue
beneath a dawning, loose clouds
pink as my mother’s nightgown.
Quiet in the canyon, calves
impressed in beds against
thin maternal dreams of hay.
It will not rain soon, but
it’s beautiful and cool
before we stir our dust—
hooves and wheels, a boiling
shroud for blatant bawling
deep within the turmoil,
big-eyed and insistent,
they plead not guilty.
Who is responsible
for feeding the world
what it needs, who cannot
go back to sleep?
The camera crews are ready.
Judge Judy has arrived.
All the cows are in their pews.
drycrikjournal 