Cymbals

I remember how the cows came in
early morning,
mother, sending the call
with the ringing of the grain pans;
two metal trash can lids
now suddenly cymbals
as I stood at the barn opening
in black rubber knee high boots
amongst the muck of farm life
and watched
as they somehow mustered
the energy to pull their
heavy bodies up the hill,
unable to make it a full run,
but at least a hurried, hungry walk,
as the cold of morning oozed from
their noses; soft and wet,
with big brown trusting eyes
as they all filed by me
and into the barn, one by one;
each, at least a thousand pounds
of kindness – one never forgets.

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