Pastoral

My husband, on his walk, sends a picture
of cows beneath a weeping willow,
some of them approaching the lens.
They recognize me now and come running,
he texts. Smiley face. I’m sure he talks to them
as if they’re dogs (Hello there, hello!),
his earbuds tuned to jazz, the Beatles, or news
of the end of democracy. The willow’s branches
hang in straight lines toward ground
pocked by hooves. No wind, no sway
when he took the picture, no devil,
though there are devils sweeping the land
beyond the frame. I hold the stillness of the willow
in my hand, the movement caught
in the field, the faces of those, like us,
who exist at their own risk. I know we can’t,
but I wish we could infuse all creatures
with peace, especially the young girls at the rally
whose sign read, Our people are not animals.
Though we are all animals.

This article was posted on Sunday, November 16th, 2025 at 8:00am and is filed under Poetry.