In The Barn of Morning I found a stool, but its cow was in the field,
south of the sun,
and just north of the earth.
The stool was called The Stool of Error,
Its legs named Impulse, Disaster and Wisdom,
each one held in the jaws of a laughing hyena.
I took my bonnet and breastplate
and walked out upon the fragrant fields of September,
following the shifting arrow of a weather vane
and the cowbell-call of my wandering girl.
"Halloo," I called, carrying The Stool of Error
and shaking the hyenas off.
"It's just me, with my bucket and milking hat,
dandelion blooms in the pocket of my smock."
"Bessie," I said, beginning my work,
"In The Barn of Morning, when all is quiet and you face the east as all milkers do and must,
Do you think of your lost calves
and the bulls who came and went?
Or are your big, kind eyes on the brightening world
and all of its clover and blue sky bigness?
Moo me a clue, girlfriend.
Under this gingham and chain mail I am fierce lonesome
and sorely unsure."
All afternoon the sun dripped across the heavens
while hyenas chittered and hid behind a buckthorn bush.
I picked up the Stool of Error and led Bessie back
to the Barn of Evening.
She lowed softly as she settled in,
and I thought that was as good advice as any,
The Soft Moo of Stay Tuned, Chickie,
a sort of psalm for this moon-hearted milkmaid to ponder.
for Sunday Muse #127.
*with apologies to Grover Lewis ("I Walk Out On The Wounded Fields Of October")