Four-thirty and it’s cooled down
from 115—black cows are leaving
sycamore shade for the water trough,
>
plodding several hundred yards of hard clay
and short blond fuzz to drink,
not like last night’s forceful mob,
>
but one-by-one, the order established
over years of living together—uphill
two hundred more to shady Blue Oaks
>
to gather and decide which way to go.
The heat has slowed their rhythm
only slightly, they are bound to graze
>
what’s left on the slopes behind us:
take the steep trail to the top of the ridge
or the long pull only part-way to the sky.
drycrikjournal 