Early in the morning I looked out my father’s window to see cows floating on the horizon. All in a straight line moving silently and effortlessly, appearing to float. I imagine every morning at the same time they do this as I think they are going to have a drink of water. My mother wrote a poem about cows seeming to float and the bulls turned to look at me just as she describes
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