Contributed by Wendy Brooker
I miss the cows
although they weren’t mine, and I didn’t know them well
but I did know it was hard to keep the dairy going
as the farming family watched its hope and history fading
From the road, I could see dozens of cows
in the warmer seasons
black and white, steady, peaceful creatures
lying, standing, or sauntering around in their field
in much the same way their ancestors did
in this place which – not long ago –was mostly fields and forest
I miss the cows
and mooing loudly a greeting to them
as I drove past with the windows down
breathing in their bovine cologne
The farm was a few miles away from my backyard
but I remember sometimes hearing them
their vuvuzela concert of moo-songs floating my way
like mellow warning sirens or the lamentations of lost souls
harmonizing with the humming of increasing traffic noise
I miss the cows
when I look at the lonely, overgrown lot, the deteriorating barn
and I imagine the cows all packing their bags on that fateful day, years ago
lining up outside, looking back for a just moment before getting in the truck to leave
