The steaming cattle lumber from the pond
toward the shifting shade beneath the cottonwood
where they lie, fly-tortured monoliths mechanically
chewing their cuds through the day’s long, liquid heat.
Do they miss spring, wish for fall as I do,
restless and depressed through endless July?
No birds circle in the pale sky, at least none visible from
here, the back seat of a Honda with my daughter at the wheel.
The trees and grasses along the road shimmer greenly
beneath the sun. They reach heliophilic blades and limbs
upward through the heavy air. You can be better,
they whisper, turning their eyes suddenly into mine.
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