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the cattle lowed in protest they knew something was wrong their udders full it was milking time, dammit but they obeyed and my grandfather scolded me it wasnât a curse but it certainly wasnât a blessing I could tell by the way the âAch!â grated, deep in his throat when he came out to milk them and found his grandchildren back at the barn proud of our accomplishment (although Philip was smirking) Grandpa knew immediately our crime and scolded us I was abashed I was only five, and a visitor on the farm he limped back to the far pasture shooing us before him puffing and haranguing in Pennsylvania Dutch I doubt that he cursed us he was a mild-mannered man an amishman and a pacifist dying of cancer he showed us the way to turn the herd bring them in for milking now in the city again but fifty years later I hear the cows coming back the raccoons and possums and deer reclaiming the back yards the weeds growing up over the fence a flash of lavender, goldenrod and ragweed autumnal hum and haze of insects and the deep-throated rumbling as the cows come back
Ross Bender
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