DRY CRIK Journal

One more wet than we had calves,
she came back through three fences –
two miles to an empty pasture
to bawl across the road to dry
mates as her bag grew tighter.

Only the horned Hereford heifer
replied – deep red, slick-haired,
limp little teats flushed pink
pacing the barbed wire – until
she grazed the memory away.

Camped under the Valley Oak,
we’ll never know her thoughts,
instincts raging – when or where
she lost her calf. No buzzards,
coyotes or hogs feeding the tall grass.

Always a mystery lurking
in the canyons, the disjointed
details that beg for help,
for a cow psychologist and
real detective to explain it away.