Milk Cow Blues (Along the Yadkin #2)

Along the Yadkin,
the train track turns with the river.
I whistle “King of the Road”
and step creosote ties in cadence,
imagine myself the Traveling Hobo,
some archetypal free man
roaming in a great land.

The trestle bridge spans a curvy creek
that empties to the river.
Crossing, I pause on the creaking grid,
lean on the rail, grainy dry with rust.
From thirty feet up, I watch cows in the field
masticate, hay from a spilling bale, defecate.
The black bull walks slowly, his testicles slung
like swaying apples in a loose skin sack.

I look below for a small shock;
a dead cow in a cold creek grave.
Four distended stomachs,
pink udders balloon between the haunches
as wet fur tufts form points
against the black glintless eye.
Leaves collect in the calm at her back
catch in the drag and rush round the snout.
This is how the farmer will find her
there, in decay beside the river.