Stories told at sunset’s arc
when last the barn doors come to close,
echo frames throughout the day,
recalled in honor, artful prose
that’s spoke in hushing laughter
yet cast about in formal style,
applauded when the speaker bows
returning to the trough a while.
Amidst the hay and feed there,
the poet cow enthralls in song,
crafted day’s end stories
collected from the farm’s sweet throng
of horses bound to duty,
of cows molested milking tales,
of mice in chase and cats who beg
to steal a sip from milking pales,
of chicks and hens who peck about
in counting grains of sand,
of dogs who walk in mending fences
beneath the gentle farmer’s hand.
Oh! The stories conjured,
each verse with vim and vigor flows,
weaves the country’s subtle life
with dreams caught twixt the piglet’s toes.
The poet cow in bashful eye
unmasks his soul when dusk is past,
turns the stanzas fluently
till all nod off and sleep is cast.
Then to himself he mutters low,
in Shakespeare tone and manner borrowed,
“Good Night, Good night! … that I shall say
good night till it be morrow.”