cow raze your first thought is that the cow must be a dog. she's smaller than any cow you've seen up close. and cows don't cross the street where you live. but the cow is not a dog. the cow is a cow, plucked from pastureland and set adrift on a sea of sod and lassitude. a woman watches the heifer hike across scuffed asphalt from her front porch. a boy and a girl stand on the stoop beside hers. brother and sister. not twins, but alike enough that you know what they are to each other without being told. they croon a tune to the bovine tourist. you contribute a countermelody from the sidewalk. the siblings stop singing and stare. your voice is a rambler in the reeds. a melody unmoored and made to wander wounded through wildflowers and weeds. you are the last sound left in this wordless world. and the cow walks on. 250605 what's it to you? who go blather from