This morning

I can see through the thick fog of a premature spring

an extra set of legs;

wobbly and dark across the creeping haze.

 

Sometime within the chilled hours of an unseen dawn

the heavy cow must have labored silently

with her back turned against the off-putting wind.

 

And there, she bowed her head with the lowered calf

and the rising steam

only to lift it again when the fog cleared and the calf was standing

 

and the cars on the county road whizzed by.