A half moon even
can be very bright,
enough to silhouette the ducks
who glide to land
in the swelling ponds.
If the sky is clear
when the sun is low
there are a few minutes
where the birches standing
in a row will hold the light
and shine like precious stones.
Rarer, even, than rubies and opals
here where the winters tend
towards grey.
Even the grey —
I never knew how
many shades there were
or how different
they make us feel.
I never knew the rain
could protect us, enclose us,
bring us together
in warm places.
The cows, too, huddle
in their shelters —
steam rises off their bodies —
sometimes rivals forget
their grudges to chew cud and be
together in peace.
The most I’ve learned, though,
is from those long-lashed creatures.
I wonder if they have been made
to be more human
or if I am becoming more like them.
Or maybe, we are learning more
about each other —
to predict, to sense
anger or fear,
to sense levity and joy.
Open a gate to fresh grass
in springtime and watch
even the oldest cows
with their creaky, tired joints
kick up their heels and buck
with ecstasy.
Just when you thought
you knew everything,
leave a gate open.
Watch them run free.
Who will leave the gate open
for me?
____________________________________________
Ben is a young farmer and big dreamer currently living and working on Vashon Island. Aside from his day job working with the doe eyed bovines at Kurtwood Farms, he is expanding his poetry portfolio. You might also find him slinging a camera around or hunched over a cluster of mycological specimens in Island Center Forest.
