Lo,
the cowman calls
his kingdom’s cows to come.
Lumbering in from pasture and woods,
the late afternoon feed,
to the trough they plod.
Buckets emptied, and booted he and gloved
the hands that have worked the work—
calves cradled, the stings of barbs,
hammer blows, fingers chapped with cold—
sweat-stained his cap, the tromping weariness.
The days come, the cows come,
comes the cowman, his kingdom to adore.
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