I’m moving cattle, rotational paddocks from one grazed low to another waiting, lush from rest and growth. Herd follows, hungry and knowing, but at the gate—they balk.
I’m in the way, and so I move.
I move from gate to another pasture that is neither where they’ve been nor where they’ll be.
A morning rain is close. Sky drips and thunder rumbles muted in the clouds. I hide myself in stand of trees and listen to the last in trail making for the gate—calves bawling to their mothers, mothers’ answer back, guiding them with sound.
With shade of the sky, it feels more like eve than morning.
Every day and moment’s different.
I wait a little longer knowing the most wild are either at very front and back, and to show one’s self at the gate before through will send them in stampede retreat.
Air is cool, cicadas call further adding to air of eve.
I believe they’re through.
I make for truck, slow.
I leave gates open should any stragglers still remain, finding their way toward reunion with the herd.
I will close it in a day when all have found their way.
And then I go, another herd for which to tend.