October 29, 2015
There is much to envy
cows content with fate,
grass at their feet, shade,
water, friends close—
no one preaches more
nor promises relief.
They’ve left irrigated
green for dry ground,
tall, brittle stems
fold beneath bellies
growing with calves
for the first time.
Under sycamores,
112° churns,
burns on a breeze
out of the south,
too hot to find
the open gates
to their new home
as mothers nursing
new life, new love,
devotion on the fight.
There is a place they go
if need be: head low,
blood in their eye,
red swirls in brown
pulsing towards crimson.
They will learn
to bellow and bawl,
shake and salivate
and come to the call
of others, like family,
within 45 days, well
before the vote
and victory dances
beyond this world.
drycrikjournal 
An exceptionally compelling poem for this season of our discontent . . .
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Thank you, Peter. Not only do I envy cows, but every living thing that is not aware of the spectacle of U.S. politics, that goes on about its business of survival like every other day. Of course I care, I’ve packed my placards, written politicians over the years, by like Sisyphus, I find the rock is always there.
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