PRECIPITATION
I'm breathing cold, praying,
praying for precipitation,
for the sky to open
and let all it's been
holding out.
Let the cold water spill over,
drip through aching hands,
or icy slow-- flat as sharp
shards-- grown above,
collected with me below.
TO A HIGHLAND COO HEIFER
I have the photo of you my mother took,
in the field across the street,
your eyes hidden in red-brown shag,
all green spring grass behind you.
Right now you are more interested in
the woman facing your herd.
Your horns point up-- unlike the bulls
with their long tines forward,
ready for half-hearted battle charges.
I count the rings of yours near the base
and think
perhaps they, like the ones in the cross-sections
of trees, mark the years of your growth.
But what does mark the growth of your life
anyhow? The way the ground you clomp
over feels in different seasons,
or how many calves you've birthed?
How developed your muscles become
before they send you off,
skin the long brown coat,
your strong rimmed horns left
aside somewhere, in no direction at all?
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