The Coming of Angels
You must login to vote
Deserted, she lies waiting in the grass
For death to come.
The flashlight beam picks out the lone face,
A world of blackness and two great ears.
Eyes below reflect battery light,
And a terror almost forgotten,
Almost irrelevant in this small thing's dying.
So vast a presence for so small a thing as this?
The calf wobbles back and falls
Into the grass while trying to rise.
My wife, on her knees,
Stroking and cooing compassion. She makes
Mother-noise, and slowly the calf responds,
Tilting her body back from death
Into more gentle arms.
Mother beside me hovers,
Close to an angel in memory.
All that I know of succor come in the night
To touch another child lost.
And I, grumbling behind to hold the light
And witness the miracle.
Scanning the dry weeds for copperheads
I feel yet the power of the women
My wife smiles up from the ground,
Her fingers, sticky from their task,
Have been the means to life for me as well.
As once I lay waiting in the dark for Death,
With no expectation of the coming of light,