The High Society of Cows and Foxes

I wrote this poem years ago. It was published in the Literary Bohemian in February of 2009. I was reminded of it recently when I drove past a small dairy farm not farm not far from my home. The day was cold and snowy. I felt bad for the cows, but one of them “seemed” to catch my eye as if to say that it was fine. I shouldn’t worry.

Pockets With Nothing

The cow that turns her head
from earth each time you
walk here, listens to breath

rattle through your ribs
like wind through a shutter,
but you still haven’t stopped

to bow with her in prayer.
Her meditations speak of a fox’s
flare weaving through tall

grass, a beehive’s heft and purr,
a mouse’s whispered confessions,
an old man sitting on a rock

within the pasture’s soul, content
to let wind untie his shoes,
fill his pockets with nothing.

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