Cow Jam
My first word as a child was cow.
At five o’clock,
twice each-and-every day,
some fifty-five cows, or more,
would pass my way,
one hundred yards back from the grey gravel
and manure-spackled country road,
I sometimes looked through
the front house windows
as they slowly passed my parent’s abode.
A sound click and a clack,
a quick, sweet-stolen stop
for some fresh grass,
with a hand pat from the farmer
and barks from the dogs,
the cows would almost reflexively splat,
then again return to all musically moving
along to the fields.
My parents told me,
the farmer was needed
with his dogs and his family
to protect those cows
from getting lost on their way
from day-fields to night-hills,
and back again each day.
In return, the cows did relay—
circular-shaped, past-feed
for neighbors to circuitously dodge
on their rounds to town
and milk—the fruit of present and future hay,
which allowed the farmers to be paid.
All, so the farmer, his dogs, and his family
could afford to continue that way of life
to walk those fifty-five, easily-lost-cows,
past my parent’s driveway,
at five o’clock,
twice each-and-every day,
seven days a week,
so 365 days per year.
Now older,
whenever I start to feel burned out,
fatigued, irritated by routine,
or not sure where in life I am going,
I often remember that good farmer
with his dogs and his family, and I think:
—Routine, what am I complaining about?
There are days too when I am
sitting and looking out my front window
(no longer on the farm)
and a mail carrier passes my way,
at approximately the same time
each-and-every day,
and I immediately think of the cow jam.
I then start feeling nostalgic
as I remember drinking
cows’ milk fresh from the dairy,
or hearing cow hooves echoing
with a hollow and soothing click and clack
off the river road through the valley,
and even strangely enough,
the often tedious,
summer afternoon washing
of fresh cow manure off my parent’s cars.
Today, when I think back,
I can so easily hear and see
that procession of cows where I grew up,
and the farmer with his dogs, and his family,
keeping those cows on their way,
and I am grateful. I think to myself:
I love those farmers—
(click) they helped me find my first word,
(clack) they let me feed the calves bottles,
(click) they let me scoop the grain in the loft,
(clack) and play in the milk barn,
(click) and spend time with them and their animals.
So, my first word was cow,
and I finally realize that the farmer with his dogs
and his family
kept more than cows
on that country road from getting lost.
