To stand, ruminant in the starlight,
While whole stories of odors flow past,
Calmly holding my own heat, warm in the cool air,
My strong feet foursquare on the firm dirt,
My body aligned with the mysterious magnetic forces of the earth...
To graze with softly whiskered half-moon lips
More sensitive than fingers,
Searching through every vegetable refinement,
Gathering the sacrificial grass, the gentle forbs,
Taking pleasure in the mastery of this vital task
Without which there would be no cows...
To lay down on the faithful ground,
Legs neatly folded in satisfying patterns,
And thoughtfully begin the long unhurried meditations of the cud,
Like a sage in contemplation of a proverb
That reveals more and more meaning
The longer it is savored...
To give voice:
To moo the most resplendent, dark, compelling moo,
A potent wordless call that shivers all the leaves,
And rings across the field, and bells out into the hills,
And lifts the heart of every kindred creature...
Were I a cow.