Driving to the airfield that would launch me to Texas,
from Texas to Bagram,
I dropped my cell phone beneath the driver seat. Just one of a thousand
that grew then absurd in their insignificance. And my fingers —
a corner edge of the phone, drew all of my awareness there.
Beneath the seat
of my car I was approaching Zen — quiet and still. A stop light swung
like an empty bell
and I was filled by a sun-struck, dry-rot barn in the spreading high plains
wheat and wandering
herds of Anatolian Red, where a vet, myself, a pregnant heifer were baking
clay in a summer kiln.
Birthing chains chattered like wind chimes as we dragged them
from the truck bed.
Then in up to my shoulder, her warmth claustrophobic as the Oklahoma sky
I felt two hooves pressed together — praying, unprepared,
and stupidly eager.
about the author