Kentucky, December, 1969

Early evening, snow crust on the back forty,
the air was damp but edged with cold
and smelled of fresh manure. The square bales
broke into flakes as we kicked them off the tailgate;
the Chevy moved slowly over the field
like a boat in a swell. The cattle came, lowing,
almost at a run, their pendulous shapes
dark against the snow, their winter coats
scruffy, their hooves loud on the hard
turf; breathing clouds of steam, drool
hanging from whiskered mouths, they
stopped, bowed to the dim stars of
hay that must have brought them
the hot mow of August, and the absent sun.