The calf born out of season
waits in her stall
for the bottle I bring,
hides behind a post
as I enter,
bangs her twisting head against wood
fighting the rubber nipple
when I try to give her suck
The sounds of my boots and her hooves
struggling in scattered dung and hay
subside to steady slurping
under a solitary bulb
Waiting for her to finish,
I watch the steam from our throats
rise to the rafters of the old barn
By now the fire I lit
before I bent my head
into wet November wind
has settled into quiet coals
Soon, I’ll warm myself by it
and grieve for us both