Afield

Just off the highway 
in the setting sun 
cattle gather on a hill. 
My foot lets up 
on the gas while 
something in me 
unhinges. Perhaps 
around-the-corner suddenness 
or the field’s rise 
of instant beauty 
loosens my grip 
on the wheel. 

Buxom cattle 
graze on blonde grass, 
a monarchy 
just before winter snows. 
Red, russet, brown, 
and black mounds, 
stark against 
the curvature of land, 
force a quick intake 
of my breath, 
a slow, calming 
stare coming up 
from the dullness 
and fatigue 
of lost journeys.

The remainder of miles 
the image of cattle 
keeps brushing up 
against my thinking 
like a caress, 
all my desires, 
far-gone afield, 
come gathering in.