my friends

as I walk into the twilight

along a winding road above the valley

rounding the curve

the twinkling points of light

of the pueblo below begin to appear

I hear a low bellow

not knowing from where

I approach the ravine

thinking perhaps a lost Corriente

is crying 

I hear the bellow again

and another voice lower joins in

I scan the surroundings for its source

when I find high up on the ridge 

in silohuette a line of ruminants

a chorus of low bellows

one then another and another

as one trails off another begins

a chorus of greetings

my friends the cows

—Lorena Wolfman