I spend my days at the farmhouse.
Always the sound of cows;
at night, the dreams of cows.
Their paths through the grass,
the way they watch
when we walk in the yard.
The blue wildflowers break
underfoot; a first frost, winter’s ritual.
At church the other women
say I should know, by now,
my baby’s differing cries.
That I should be well-versed
in the language of need.
Among the cows, a line of geese
moves through the blank repetition
of pasture. Modest as nuns.
Finally, one rises to flare its wings.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.
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