A New Season

Living in Vermont one understands the power of each season. They are undeniable. Some usher in more forcefully than others. However, there is no mistaking winter’s approach. I was struck by the convergence of the literal and figurative this early morning. A change of season was impacting our landscape and an inhabitant. We experienced our first snowfall just yesterday reinforced by a steely gray November sky. Simultaneous to the blanket of white a constant cry could be heard for hours on end at a neighboring farm. A cow separated from her older calf felt painfully yet poetically sad. Heavy hearted moos were inescapable. The love of a bovine mother was susceptible to loss and sorrow…

 

Snow fell by the many inches.

The quiet harbinger had arrived.

Early hours illuminated.

A muffled blanket of white.

 

Rumbling across the rural landscape a

low moaning cry severed the night.

A foghorn of grief cut though

the darkness.

The lonely moo of a

Hereford cow

echoed

off

the

hills.

Her unwavering despair hung on

icy air.

Haunting in its

urgency.

Unnerving in its

frequency.

Brief moments of

nothingness.

She waited.

Bellowing an exhausting

vigil.

 

Harsh vistas.

Dark weighty clouds

slide across the mountain tops.

The chilling embrace of November with

dusty umber skies

hovered over leafless

barren trees.

A new season emerged.