1.
I am lost in a blond pasture
of cows with calves,
lone silhouettes under oaks
stressed by years of drought—
or nurseries: black lumps
around a cow—
the expectant gathered
under sycamores watching
babies steal the show.
2.
Hanging in the leaves,
estrogen
rubs off on me
each pair bonding
differently—
love’s rough tongue
or murmuring song,
some taught to follow
the swing of an udder.
3.
Closer with each visit
we become family
with gesture and tone—
all the poetry
unnecessary
from now on.
drycrikjournal 