The Last Lost Cow of Baldwin Town

 

Mushroom season comes with fall rains, and then the early cool

Opens doors that have lain closed throughout our febrile summer.

Here, lingering within the cage of twining moonflower vines,

A tiny cow hovers on the rotor of hummingbird wings,
Thin and clear as a dragonfly's. Her hooves dangle in the dew

Sliding down the heart-shaped slope of the leaves.
 
Lost again in the vines, lowing. Tired in the rising sun,
Beating down the humid heat steaming like the breath
Of a great wyrm twisted around the base of the vine,
Training it to coil, training it to reach.
 
Lost cow in the vines. Last cow of Baldwin Town,
Where the Boettcher fairies summon slough and rain
Between the cypress's wooden parishioners in endless 
Pilgrimage to sacred pools. Cows gambol for water.
 
Boettcher fairies charm the dancing suburban calves
Away from the small fields cramped by concrete rivers
They leave memories of other towns caught
In their butterfly books and in their earth-deep carol.
 
But the cows begin to disappear. It begins with vine tips
Stirring like fingers, or thoughts begun far below.
It begins with the door opening, with the thin back wall
Planting the idea of a border, it begins here, in a backyard.
 
She puts the cow in a basket from the highest closet shelf,
On a stolen hotel towel from a high school competition. Remembers
The concrete hallways and the steel banister, the archways
Leading to sodas and ice, rooms kept open until chaperoned closed.
 
It’s thinner now, and smaller, but it holds the cow close;
The basket hangs proper from her elbow, nestled into her waist.
She feels like yesterday, once more careful—overawed by
houses and anxious for her future. She knows it, now.

A story that was only shown, the words all melted

Crayons in a wheel of color that scraped brick-red,

Yellow mornings, blue wisps dreaming in the muddle.

She pats the cow gently. It bumps her fingers.

 
Lost cow in the vines. Last cow of Baldwin Town,
Carried like a kitten, like a mythic loaf, like a rumor
To the twirling Boettcher fairies with ink-vein wings
Whom she knows.

Okay, that TL:DR. So, let's agree that we've "read" the poem and are ready for coffee and...toffee scones. It's a cool morning and the spider that has been working her way around the gazebo is over there, far enough away that everyone fits at the table but still within fly/mosquito catching range. One dog is chasing dragonflies around the yard, the other is dreaming of chasing dragonflies on the pillow nearby. If you sneak him a crumb, everyone pretends to not notice. It's been a week--my parents are currently living in the no-water-because-deadly-amoeba-in-the-pipes zone and I'm trying to not run screaming (in my heart, only, of course) around the house. Trying to not be afraid of my freaking tap water. On second thought, let's haul out a tuffet and invite the spider to have breakfast with us, too. Scone crumbs probably draw the flies like anything. Everything is totally fine. Have some more coffee.

Hrrrmmm. Yeah. Things are totally fine. Hoping that your upcoming week is truly fine. :) 

-- Chrissa