Cows do mourn.

A processional line forms
Slow and purposeful

A cool and clear afternoon affair

The mother sits,
crying out at moments

Her friends pass
some sit and
stay
Others offer condolences

Her calf, on display beside her

A few exchange caring kisses

The herd shares her loss





She is left alone

the baby held for nine months
growing in her womb






I watch

Understanding there is pain

Not wanting to disturb

But needing to be the
Undertaker



She leaves his side


at last

heavy steps, strained utter, wet eyes



As I scoop him up
to lay his head in another place,

She looks back and knows

Knows more than we give her credit for