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Bill Herbert
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A cow is pissing in the twilight:
a black cow, in a field of brown and white
sisters, looking across the hills
to the border, though she doesn't know this.
She has a cord that runs along her back
which something has seized abruptly
rodding her tail up, runkling her neck.
Her stream gleams thickly as
the air gains evening's soot-smuts:
it strings her to the grass
at a strict angle, no curve,
just the liquid she leans against
gleaming like a narwhal's tusk, an ashplant,
as she strains to be relieved.