With handfuls of mown grass, I reach out to the shy cows
in their graze-hungry fields who resist my offering,
retreat backwards from the barbed fence that shocks my hand.
I am a New Yorker, dumb to the ways of cow, eagle, horse,
familiar with the aggressive ways of the pigeon who pimps
for crumbs, the squirrel who sprints across window panes,
fleets of cockroaches who invade the night.
Now, I see cows corralled in their own muck,
stopped by fences just beyond lush green
meadows, assailed by armies of flies.
Cows, I pray you fresh cool breezes and plentiful
rich pastures. Cows, I pray you kind masters.