Their field empty, clogged with mud all through these cold, sodden months. Just a small herd of big-boned cows fattened hungrily on high summer grass. White coats blazoned ginger. I see them still close congregants under the sycamore. Flick of tails in rhythmic time with busy jaws the dizzying buzz of flies, and the tick-tick pulse of an electric fence. Through many years I, a vicarious butcher let others wield the hatchet. Bravo does not suffice to salve the conscience of this rueful, re-formed carnivore.
A poem from Shay’s word garden list from the prose poetry of Russell Edson
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