We counted seventeen Angus cows
Moving silently into the clearing,
The cows first, then the calves, and last the bull,
Who paused to look our way
Before dismissing us as unimportant.
And then I saw that they were floating
In a field of black-eyed susans,
With small white daisies lagging at their sides.
The herd sailed slowly westward,
Pushed only by the slightest breeze—
Black barges on a golden sea.
And at that moment, it was as if the wine
Were already made, and I was looking at them
Through a shining haze of memory;
As if the sun had turned the berries
To their final liquid form,
To drink again and again, having only
To think of black cows in a field of yellow flowers.
July 15, 1983