The gentle winds of Uzhupud
A large mama cow, full of milk
Eases down on our cement driveway
Nowhere to go, nothing to do.
It is often said that cows can sleep standing
But can only dream lying down.
Her dreams are cut short
when Elisa tugs on her rope.
The cow lumbers to standing
back feet up first,
front feet following slowly.
Raw foamy milk streams
from mama’s lazy warm body
into a white bucket;
food for a young one.
A liter of milk under my armpit,
I listen to the distant rumble
of metal machines sorting stones
on the other side of the river.
Unawares I rub the warm bottle of milk
over my belly, catching a glimpse
of the mountain range
where hothouses-wrapped hills
in creamy white plastic, Christo-like,
are lightly bending¸ yielding
to the gentle winds of Uzhupud.