Guidance

Over thanksgiving left-overs,
My aunt informs us that tomorrow
she will move her cows.
Will we help? Yes, of course.
But we cousins don't know much.
"It's easy," says my uncle (teasing, I think).
"You just have to use the right words--
S' calf. S' calf. Hi cow."
My aunt, who, herself,
has quite a gift for all creatures,
shares an expert's advice:
"You don't stand right in front of them,
but off to the side." It seems cows, too,
like their truth slant.

"No big motions," says Mom--
we stand in the lane
of the farm where she grew up--
"It really is kind of intuitive."
I tell her I do not think
I came here often enough
to intuit cows.
Nevertheless, I stand back
in the mouth of a side road,
waiting, with the general idea--
little motions, just enough
to say: "Don't turn here."

The sky is big. The air is chill.
Down the main road, near the farmstead,
a cow lows. They are coming.
Hooves clomp on blacktop,
a red cow--the first--and her calf
reach the corner and look toward me,
considering. I lift my hands
a tiny bit above my sides,
the gentlest wave, and shift my weight.
It is enough. They pass on,
three cows, three calves,
into the pasture.
Easy, easy does it.
And I wonder--
how many shy souls have startled
from an image of a god
who flails?