PLODDING
Even the sleek, young cows
like having time to think, more
willing to help get the job done
to stay awhile longer
in these hills – the sort is easy.
Except for a single set of tracks
through the dew on new green,
first light glints, each blade afire
and twinkling like starlight
to turn the world on its head,
to stop the clock and pause
for a breath or two, for the flesh
to ingest, for a glimpse
in this poem for going slow –
an unfinished noun, like home,
like the Kaweah peaks dressing
and undressing snow, each sheet
slipping downstream a little,
revealing granite, or stripped
at once to flood – we never know
what is yet left to see of wild
extremes, of truth, of natural
beauty – the sole business of
poetry – before we go. Even
cows like having time to think.
.81" more, still wanting to rain