— Harry Lafnear
It is not, after all, a car alarm.
It is merely a cow on the greening hill
At the top of the street,
Lowing. Which is shy of bellowing.
So neither car alarm nor cow alarm,
But if cows can be said to sing,
She is singing
One mild, cow note, repeatedly.
On the hill, not grazing,
But softly singing,
She is a lone cow:
A singular rectangle,
or its crude approximation;
One lumpy, bright white flag
With balloon-string legs, hovering
Over a ragged shadow.
At this distance, moo is merely ooo.
It’s not a lonely call, nor
Noticeably happy, hungry, or horny.
It’s nothing that would stay with me
When I close my door, except
In league with the light:
The magic-hour, pre-sunset light.
It sets her aglow,
Her frame softly haloed,
Her song now softly hallowed,
An ungulate prayer,
Waiting for cosmic favor.
Not for food or shelter.
Not for a mate.
Just notice. The same
As we all crave:
To have a moment
In the eyes of God,
Singing out in this beautiful place,
And despite the crudeness of our bearing,
Be seen, like the cow,
To make it Majestic.