Afternoon Walk

 

I found them in the shade

of an old oak. The cow

 

on its belly, moaning, tried

to lift its weight on one leg, but slipped

 

in the mud, the leaves,

and its own blood which stained

 

the valley floor. My father, alone, red

as that blood, too focused to even

 

cuss anymore, murmured

soothing words as he struggled

 

to secure a harness impossibly

around the shoulders of the calf still

 

halfway inside its mother. A tractor (also red)

idled on the other end of the harness.

 

He pulled the harness himself, one foot

on the cow's behind, the calf

 

struggling, my father frantic

until he saw me. "The tractor!"

 

he yelled. I moved, never mind

the fear, the blood, never mind

that I couldn't drive it.

 

He barked orders, steering me

with his words as though

I were an engine, my arms, the gear-shift,

 

my feet, the peddles. I eased

forward, watching him, both feet

on the cow, his whole body pulling

 

as I kept the wheel straight. The calf

moved; the cow lowered its head

 

as though concentrating on a difficult problem. The calf

squeezed out and, suddenly free, landed

 

on my father, who fell to the ground, laughing,

dragged by the harness which jerked forward

 

as the tractor lurched

into the oak and stalled out.

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Click for a previous C L Bledsoe poem in Barnwood