Her slender body moves among the herd
On the grassy dike as surely as the sun
Goes down, as slowly
As they themselves can move one hoof at a time.

Their level spines are taller than she is,
Each flank a different country,
Islands of milk at nightfall, black-and-white
Deliberations of complete fulfillment.

She steps around the high gates of their thighs.
Their ears swivel,
And she takes in their deeply, broodingly
Contemplative profiles staring straight at her.

One bolts, but stops, having forgotten why.
The dewlap quivers. The veins
Of the udder pulse. As round, as large as her lens,
The eyes turned to the salt marsh and the sea.

She follows, kneels to focus, and with the gaze
Of the goddesses of meadows
The two of them wait there in the last of the light,
A horned moon rising. Then she rises too

And, smiling, comes my way, led by her shadow
Into my arms. We hum as if in clover.