Change of Use

I can hear it in the distance,
the churn of pistons pulling 
a set of discs. Jerry Butler’s
going to plant corn in the strip of pasture heifers 
have grazed for fifty years. I will miss 
the thump of hoofs, the whoosh of exhales, 
flaring nostrils, the rhythm of chewing, 
how they scratched their long necks like bows
on rusted barbed wire. Each spring 
I’d give them my own welcome back after 
a barn-bound winter: clustered at the fence,
they’d stretch their necks to pull long pieces 
of meadow grass from my hand till their thick, 
raspy tongues scratched across my palm.
Engine rumble draws me to the back door.
The International lurches into view,
sixteen rows of soil rising and folding
like a wrinkled earthen tablecloth spread 
with a feast of worms and bugs for the seagulls
that flock above. Jerry carves a half-moon 
at the end of the pasture and hugs the fence line 
heading back. Rock pings against blade.
After several passes, the soil will be flat, 
ready for planting. I miss the girls already.