The Herd Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Two dozen black-and-white patchwork cows
overwhelmed their corner of the small farm field
where they had gathered near a fallen, rotted oak.
Mable stared at me from just a few feet away
from her side of a rusting slope of wires.
Yellow tags in her ears emphasized every movement of her head.
"I didn't bring anything. And I didn't bring the dog, either."
I knew she'd heard me, but she glided closer anyway,
pretending not to understand.

She stood guard, keeping the field securely under her hooves
as though it were lawn carpeting that might bubble up unexpectedly.
I had come to take photos of her fallen, bark-stripped tree
before shadows shifted
and before a mass of rumbling dark clouds got too close.
I silently wished I could convince Mable to lead the ladies
over a low, hoof-beaten hill toward their barn,
and as if by telepathy or magic, knowing my wishes
she flicked her tail,
turned and mooed tremendously,
neck out, eyes wide.
Within moments every cow had disappeared over the rise
except their Mother Mable.

I waved my thanks;
she bowed her head and snorted.
I stepped between two of the prickly wires
my feet parting weeds, avoiding odorous dung
moving over stomped grass until
I touched the muddy ground of the natural worship mat
spread out around the oak.
My camera bumped against my chest with each step
eager to capture some emotion,
if I would only let it.
Taking off the lens cap, I aimed
catching too much sky
too much tree
too much nothing, leaving me unsatisfied
until that bovine crowd I was so sure I didn't want
returned to pose
perfectly
against the stormy, crackling grey and orange backdrop
of their photogenic sky