A line of cows files down the dirt road
Through the browned scrub oaks, and one cow lows.
Each turns her head to give me a stare
But walks on. Free range. The road is theirs.
The wind sifts through the slopes, as a boy
Might run his hands through an old jewel-box,
As if it were a chest of gold coins
From one of those tales once meant for boys.
No, that’s wrong. I’ll leave it in, but wind
Does no such thing. Each patch of trees stirs
In turn, and the cows are out of sight.
One still lows. Did you guess, yet? You know?
Sunday, October 4, 2020
What to Do When You Know—and You Do—Bad Times Will Find You
