Cows by the Highway								

4/22/18

The cows by the Highway, cattle, actually-
	Who but a ranch hand
		Knows them as anything but cows, really.
Rectangular shadows in morning sun,
	They arrive each spring
		When the rain promises to stop,
A few hundred strong, slowly
	Moving through fields out by the packing 
			Plant, then they’re gone in the fall.
I see them every day
	As I roll up 5 to work,
		Laying in emerald grass rich after winter rains.
They graze, lazily slap their tails,
	Drink from a blue basin
		By a wire fence near the breakdown lane,
The din must be deafening
	As we roar past, but they show
		No sign of being bothered,
Idly mind their own business,
	Knowing nothing of the 
		Bludgeon, the butcher, the hook.