First-calf heifers, tired from the drive
over hill and dale across the creek
to the corrals, sorted and fly sprayed
before their new home plied with alfalfa,
maternity wards bare as human baby’s derrière
in the flats, but with hair yet on the hillsides—
and a few old girls to show them how-in-hell
to get there. Out from under sycamores,
they work the shadow of the ridge in bunches,
stop and look, a few paces at a time,
inspecting distances, not knowing yet
how far they’ll have to go to stay here.
Simple. Restrained. Honest.
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Thanks, Burl. A little rough around the edges with the vernacular, not quite my lyric style, but I do enjoy reading how cattle think. The trick is getting it on the page. Thanks, for the feedback! 🙂