Sunday Morning

By Ben Gotschall

Originally published in Resilience, Issue #46 – Colors of Home

 

SUNDAY MORNING

O brothers and sisters!
The meaning is all here—
Here in the barn and the milk.
–William Kloefkorn

 

The jersey, not startled by my waking her,
regards me with the same doe-eyed indifference
she would any other day.  The cows rise
and stretch, bones of their backs creaking,
beds of matted grass dry hollows 
in dew as they drop manure and line 
out, head to tail up the hoof-
packed trail along the plum-
thicket’s edge.  I lean against an elm and light

my pipe, ritual of smoke passed while
the herd stops to water at the hill-
top trough.  When again they resume
their walk along the lane the sun has risen 
over slopes of emergent corn, far-off city 
lights dim amid gray shapes of buildings,
the capitol’s golden dome standing above them
like a pope.  I turn away, follow
cows to the barn, where the small dog
awaits supplication, this chore sacred 
even unto her.  The final teat stripped,

last drops purged, any spill dog-licked clean,  
I spray the barn floor spotless and draw myself
a tin cup of cool milk, its color
pure symbol.  From the north, the monastery bells 
echo across the hills.  The cows loaf, eyes
half-lidded in sun, ears twitching one
by one to flick lazy flies.  I tip
the cup to my lips and drink it dry.