His field is bare.
The cows have eaten it to
dust
which blows in spirals on
the breeze.
Now, he walks them
over the hill
to a long field of wheat
stubble
which drapes itself
all the way to the
village.
He stands out,
his white shirt
against the pale golds and
browns
of summer.
A muted sound
of wooden tongues against
bronze,
the cows' bells dong.
They move slowly
mowing the final stalks
in the beating sun.
But, at last, there is evidence of
change.
The fig leaves rustle
dryly
and the dew in the
mornings
lies like diamonds in the
brambles.
We shift gear from summer.
The cows move slowly
uphill
as the sun, that gaseous
ball,
lowers itself to the
toothy horizon.
We wave, the cowman and I.
