Poem: Cow Rides

I remember in the summer

riding in my grandpa’s truck at dawn,

across barren fields and

newly-planted crops,

golden hair blowing like

quavering autumn stocks.


I hung out of his trunk,

like his dogs from the window,

looking for cows as musty air

dusted across my face.

We passed picket fences, the church,

herds of hay bails along the way.


Soon I’d see speckles of

black and white, peppering

the pastures with their great

leather hides.  Some stood still,

some slept on the grass,

some mooed with excitement

as we drove past.


Grandpa would point.  “Look,”

he’d say, and gesture to the right,

where I’d see a calf extending

its legs, teetering and tottering,

like a seesaw gone astray.


He’d slow down and console

it, petting its skin until its mother

was ready to nurse,

then the cow would readily quiet down

to greedily suckle on the udder.


I’d laugh and wave goodbye

as we headed home.  We drove

through the pastures and across the

fields, until I knew we were close

when gravel met wheels.


As we put-put-putted to a stop,

my grandma emerged through

the front screen door, ready to greet me

as I yakked about wanting more.

“No more cow rides for today,”

she’d smile and say, and we’d

sit on the swing, revel in the day.

By Katelyn (DP2)


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