I can still hear the loud moan
in my grandfather’s kitchen,
where the woodstove was open for
the failing fire’s warmth, and
on the oven door, wrapped in an old quilt,
lay the new Charolais calf—a twin
that survived its snowy birth that morning,
though its brother died—both of them
the color of muddy snow, this one
too weak to stand.
We tried to feed him his mother’s milk,
but he seemed to forget he was eating
and slept, so that by ten that night, when
he raised his head suddenly, making
a loud maa-a-a-a sound, I could scarcely
believe it. He’s getting better!
Dad put his hand on my shoulder. Quiet.
He’s dying, was all that he said—old knowledge,
deep as the Blue Mountains. Still, I’d witnessed
that final, wonderful rallying, as if every ounce
of life pulled together to raise the calf’s head,
to leave his sound so indelibly there.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
