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Morning Calls

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Early morning
The rising sun, a day breaking light
Morning mist and dew blankets the hard rough ground

The lonely call of a newborn calf
With his weak new eyes he makes out the dark silhouette riding toward him.
Horse and rider move the heard on the open plain, like a swollen river, flowing past rocks and bursting the uncertain bank, only to return to a shallow river basin

The black swarm fills the small corral,
The cries of mother to calf, echoing into the hills, only to disappear into the wind,
The ultimate struggle to wrench the connection, between mother and child,

The cowboy throws his first loop,
And catches the calf by the hind legs.
A struggle for freedom,




Wrestled to the ground.

A sudden manhandling like no other,
Vaccination and castration, a searing hot brand into the calf’s side,
The innocence of the calf is gone in a single puff of smoke,
No longer a free willing soul; it is now a member of the herd.
Measured for beef in taste and tenderness in pounds and ounces.

The day is over.
The smells, sounds, and sights evaporate into the big sky.
The day is coming, the rising sun, and the morning mist, until the next time I hear those morning calls.





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This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

Peach said...
Jan. 3, 2009 at 11:07 am
Wow - what a neat poem. Your details show you really know what you are talking about.
 
bonerjams09 said...
Dec. 27, 2008 at 7:08 pm
I liked yur powem.

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