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Poetry

06/29/2016

(Design Pics photo)

 

Cows Come. Cows Go

Eight cows munched their way
along the coulee toward
my brown brick prairie home.
Escapees.

I called the nearest farmer
whose home I could see across
the grain fields.
Not my cows. Don't worry.
Cows come. Cows go.

I watched them head
toward the busy highway.
Not one was hit.

I remember this old man's
terse wisdom when difficulties
blunder into my path
with a frequency
I don't appreciate.

Cows come. Cows go.

By Jeannette Timmerman