Late summer, and, although it’s night
and the farmhouse is empty of children,

it’s not quiet and the air grows hotter
with all the windows I shut to muffle

the bellowing of cows to their calves
who are calling to their mamas

now separated by fences for weaning
but close enough to sense in adjacent fields.

I know not all make good mothers,
sometimes a cow will birth a calf

and walk away
or forget one in a great field

and go grazing with her slow-moving herd,
but these will not sleep, nor will I,

until this unnatural season ends.
If I opened a window,

opened my mouth, I could
join their mourning

out of empathy or instinct,
or both, I don’t know.