Elsewhere

The evening has met its crescendo of blue and the crescent moon, sharp claw, clings to the sky on my walk this evening. It is that time of the year. Come home, peck my husband on the cheek, dance a ditty with my dogs in the dining room, and out I go for a walk into the receding light.  

Today I chose the cow path, opposed to the darker river paths, the into-town path, and the farther meandering paths. The cow path takes me west and up, closer to the sky where the sun’s final smirk flattens into the mountain horizon. The cow path is a dead-end but was once connected to one of the father meandering paths.  

Along the cow path, of course, are Hereford cows, always dotting the hills and dales. The hills here love the sun with a deep green love in the daytime. And the sky loves the hills with a deep blue love. The wind here loves the white curls of the cows’ broad heads. I am always that woman paused on the road, wondering about the windows of the homes that punctuate these pastures. To look out a window and see these beasts connect-the-dotting across the landscape. To carry coffee onto the porch on crisp mornings, only to listen to the steamy moo-song.  

Today is especially special for as the evening cloaks the sky, the cows moo messages across the acres. Messages I do not understand. Also there is the cacophony of the Canada Geese. They gather in someone’s large yard, creating a dark lake of their huddling bodies. Several cows are close to the wire fence along the road and I see how my whole body reflects in just one of their eyes.  

I am 36 years old. My eyes have seen the towering hammer-head of a storm cloud from a plane, illuminated with light. My eyes have seen the yellow planes of my sister’s skin as she lay dying. My eyes have met with a man’s whose fiancé’s body was just inside the house, her brain obliterated by a bullet. I have stared down into Oregon’s blue bowl of a volcano. I have watched smiles stretch across faces and have watched in wonder at my toddling niece and nephew as they found magic in the frenzy of a snowstorm, their little bright coats bounding and dipping into white.  

The cow and I stare at one another. Me in my shoes and them in their hoof-boots. I wonder what it is to be a cow and how I would fare if after 36 years I suddenly became one. What would the storm cloud, my sister’s pallor, the devastation, the blue bowl, and love do for me then? What would it mean for me in my bovine brain? I imagine the meadow-breath, the chewing-over, the disposal of cud, the waste-matter of what isn’t necessary. I imagine the giant pressure in me, needing to be released. Walking with it up the hills. Wondering if the grass is sweeter on the other side, perhaps. 

I continue up the road, to the dead-end. I imagine I look awkward from anyone seeing me from their window as I stand there at the end, marveling at its falseness as I stand on the asphalt. An overgrown green path pushes forward, beyond the barrier, connecting elsewhere.