I remember in the summer
riding in my grandpa’s truck at dawn,
across barren fields and
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)