by Patrick Bradshaw

They were moving the cooler
to make room for the bulk tank
when we found it.
Huge and dusty.
Big as my size 8 sneaker.
Squatting in grime
that hadn’t seen light since
grandpa installed the milking machines.
It seemed to be the consequence
of abandoning the dented milk cans
that had always been good enough.

Blinking only once
it waddled into the shadows
never to be seen again.

Despite the promise
of that stainless steel tank
we couldn’t keep the cows.
The barns sagged and fell
the fields grew into woods
whose trees have eaten
the barbed wire fences.
No straight lines left.
Just burdock and thistle
blocking the way
we thought we were going.