It’s early yet for rain,
for distant silhouettes
of cows and fresh calves
beneath oak trees
nurturing poetry
with murmurs and licks
on a young mother’s tongue.
A slow rhythm and meter
for weeks in the womb
that rumble clearly now:
single syllables,
grunts and moans—
a universal language
instinct pumps
forever between them.
drycrikjournal 