Cows
/Wendy Cleveland
I pass the farmhouse and fields of cotton
anchored in drought-stricken soil.
Across the road in front of a small barn
they stand in the middle of the pond,
a small herd of cows, some chest deep
with big ears and soft dark eyes staring
toward a field of sunflowers with heads
drooped on dead stalks, seeds now dropped
into a cracked row of dirt.
I stop to photograph, inch through
brittle grass to avoid the sting of red ants.
The cows turn and look toward me
shifting their weight, ears twitching.
A white egret lands on one black cow
and when she begins her slow move
it flaps and dances, digs deep
into her hide and holds on.
She turns away and begins her plod
out of water and up a knoll, calf right behind,
to a stand of trees, the two of them lugging
their hot bodies single file, heads nodding
with each forward lunge, her udder slung low.
They reach the shade, pause, and only then
does she turn and look at me,
too far away now for a decent photo
yet the picture I see, which I’ll always remember,
is the silhouette of a calf and his mother
and the white bird roosting regal and splendid
like a fine feathered hat atop her broad back.
Author’s Note: This poem was triggered by an image I saw while driving through the countryside in rural Alabama. The summer day was hot and humid, and several black cows were standing in a pond next to a large field. On the far side another cow was lumbering up the hill with a calf following behind toward a stand of trees. Earlier I had seen a white egret on top of a cow in another pond, so I combined the two images.
Wendy Cleveland’s poems have appeared in Persimmon Tree, Yankee, Red Rock Review, and others. Her collection Blue Ford was published in 2017. She is a member of the Alabama Writers’ Forum and attended the Sewanee Writers’ Conference.
