Nap-time nurseries
beneath the sycamores,
babysitting cows
relieve one another
to eat and drink.
Those without calves
recline with bellies bulging,
thrust painfully skyward
like over-inflated
black beach balls—
all await the green
soft-stemmed alfalfa—
await new life,
await a rain
to settle dust underfoot
as they graze short-cropped
dry feed into the dirt
awaiting new life—
seed awaiting rain.
The long range forecast
confirms our superstitions,
but like a no-hitter
we dare not mention yet—
until the dark hole
in the barn grows larger,
until the canyon fills
with echoing complaints,
the agonizing song
of cows begging,
calf solos in the distance.
drycrikjournal 