A Southeast Colorado Low

Sometimes, location is everything.

Crooked wooden fingers once
clawed up through the dirt.
Now, dead in the heat--
burned red in the sun.

Under one
in the distance,
a tiny roan cow, obviously angular,
stands alone.

A minuscule piece of my heart
that refuses to come home.

She prefers instead to low,
starved,
ignoring the damp new grass
and the wide, wide sky.