It doesn’t pass—
only

softens
at the edges
over time

loss

Yesterday—
the delight of the herd
bells
long, low mooooos

and then

silence

one calf
stilled
grounded

breath gone

24 hours later

a circle
of trodden grass
holds him

they return

hooves heavy
heads lowered

they nuzzle
and linger

low, mournful bellows

and mama—

motionless

waiting
just beyond the broken circle

her body
a curve
that does not leave

Nothing has passed—

only

softened
at the edges

just enough

I did not see him carried
but I can imagine—

arms beneath his small weight
lifting
what the field could not keep

later—
I walk to the edge of the field

she has returned

to the bare place

her nose
an instrument of remembering
calling
and calling