Late September. Raking the flower beds that have gone to seed, I take in the lowing of the herd moving down the hillside, their meadow hayed late this season after the long rains. The rutted dirt road up to their sagging barn pulls me away from turning over the soil. The evening cold is coming, their purposeful eyes pressed up against the fence stop to stare in my direction, nodding as I walk away from summer. I turn to autumn, a wind carrying the incommunicable past back to me, old sorrows lined up in my throat leak out, only these cows hear me voice them. My body leans into their calm animal inhale and exhale, blowing out fears that fall away with the cattle’s breath. Back in the garden, I push the shovel down hard, in deep, and heave open the earth.
A Turn in the Year
A Turn in the Year
A Turn in the Year
Late September. Raking the flower beds that have gone to seed, I take in the lowing of the herd moving down the hillside, their meadow hayed late this season after the long rains. The rutted dirt road up to their sagging barn pulls me away from turning over the soil. The evening cold is coming, their purposeful eyes pressed up against the fence stop to stare in my direction, nodding as I walk away from summer. I turn to autumn, a wind carrying the incommunicable past back to me, old sorrows lined up in my throat leak out, only these cows hear me voice them. My body leans into their calm animal inhale and exhale, blowing out fears that fall away with the cattle’s breath. Back in the garden, I push the shovel down hard, in deep, and heave open the earth.