Little Pieces of Mountains and Wings
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
I’ve yet to hear cows discuss frivolous subjects.
When I left home that day, the house lifted
onto chicken legs and followed me.
I went down to the creek to look for therapeutic rocks,
where it was hard for the house to get down there,
but the cloud mother made it, with her lingering cough,
and breath of beer. I collected as many rocks as would fit
into my red windbreaker’s pockets. I found a hawk’s feather
with somber hues, and carefully carried that with me as well.
Back then, there were no humdrum days. I started thinking
there was a “you” in everlasting life, and was glad,
and walked through tunnels of autumn trees
on my way back to the cows to show them the rocks
and the feather. Along the way I saw a pair of trousers hung on a laundry line,
trying to walk the wind. I leaned over the fence, knowing
the cows had me in their luminous, dark eyes.
One black and white cow twitched its ears, lifted its head, and said,
with a mouth full of grass: “Go home.
There are unwanted peonies and wisteria waiting.”
After a long time, I turned away, thankful my pockets
were full of little pieces of mountains and wings.