The cows meet me before the sun does,
steam rising from their backs
like the day hasn’t decided yet
what it will become.
They are curious creatures,
noses pressed to pockets,
tongues testing the salt of my hands,
the frayed edge of my sleeve.
To care for them is to be observed.
Every step counted,
every sound weighed.
They know me by rhythm:
boots in gravel,
the clink of feed in a metal bucket.
They gather not from hunger alone
but from interest
as if attention itself is a kind of grain.
Fence posts are licked smooth with time.
The world is something they learn
by touch, by taste, by patience.
I move among them slowly,
water, hay, the small rituals of keeping life.
Nothing grand, nothing wasted.
Their breath warms the cold air.
Their eyes hold a steady calm,
asking me to stay.
By the time the sun arrives,
the work has already shaped me—
hands smelling of earth and feed,
heart steady as the herd,
listening to what does not speak
but trusts me all the same.
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