WALKING THE PASTURE
Every afternoon my father
pulls the metal bolt from the gate
that swings into the field
behind the house
crosses over the gulch
to the pasture beyond
checking the Herefords,
the costly Brahma bull.
Though his legs ache now,
he steps strongly
in the navy slacks,
white shirt, wingtip shoes
he wears to his law practice,
tries to miss dottings of dry dung,
plum branches, stinging nettleweed.
A baby calf may have fallen
fractured a hoof
in a ditch or gully
set on by dogs in packs
who turn instantly to wolves
when no one feeds them,
his prize heifer
caught in the barbs of fences
stretched across the borders
to keep her safe.
He shakes his head,
his precious herd
born innocent
never outgrow trust
learn to protect themselves
against crazed dogs, trucks
sweeping red dust
from Peachburg Road.
You old fool, he calls to them,
half in despair, half in love
Anne Cope Wallace
The MacGuffin, Schoolcraft College, Vol. XI, No. I, Spring 1994
Livonia, MI
Established in 1984. National literary magazine from Schoolcraft College
http://www.schoolcraft.edu/macguffin/
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