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Mist diffuses red-gold morning light
across the land.
Golden cows, their long backs
straight as yardsticks,
wait for milkers to awaken.
Cowbells rattle, hollow music
calling, "Bring the pail.
Stroke our udders. Pull our teats
and take our milk. We're waiting."
In the meantime, they rub their muzzles
in grass wet with dew.
Golden haze obscures the view.
Those may be trees in the distance
near those might-be hills.
We'll wait and see.
Sun will burn off mist
and bring its own bright golden light.
All will become clear:
house unveiled,
trees with sharply separate leaves.
And cows still stand,
cream a-waiting,
future butter yearning to be churned.
There will be milk for all,
milk by the gallon.
But until the farmer comes
with his pail
that milk serves only
to fill up and pull down
ballooning udders.
Strong-backed, patient, russet cows
nibble grass already closely cropped.
Still and silent in the gold
they attend their tardy farmer's wake-up.
Dew on grass moistens muzzles
nuzzling tiny spears of green.
All those stomachs strongly work
turning grass into our milk
in golden light of morning.
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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