I am furious. My neighbor clearcut his land

But for a few oaks he left for his aesthetic sensibility—

Land that I once owned and tended.

Now, in the first hellish throe of winter,

The herd is huddled in a hollow, ice and snow covered,

Backs humped, rumps to the blasted wind.

Without their forest shelter they are homeless,

At the mercy of winter, but also summer's unimpeded sun.

I could ask, what was he thinking, but I know—

He was thinking dollars, he was thinking

Of his material comfort at the expense of his animals.

Them cattle, he might say, have no feelings,

What does it matter? I might say, if you can't imagine

Their discomfort, imagine this—every moment

They spend cold and huddled are moments

They're losing weight. Them cattle, your livelihood,

Are losing your precious dollars. What you gained

By adding these extra grazing acres is now lost.

I'm talking to the wind. He is unaware, or doesn't care.

I am left to be aware, or care, or both. Maybe he's right.

Maybe it's my thin skin that aches and seizes

At the thought of night closing in, cold and miserable.

Maybe this is about me. Lord knows I've spent

More than enough time in blizzards such as this,

Bringing calves, cold and stiff as popsicles, to the barn,

Rubbing them down with towels, getting warm milk

Into their bellies. It's work, and it doesn't necessarily

Have a happy ending. Maybe this is my nightmare redux.

But maybe doesn't count, them cattle are hurting,

And the only heat to be had is coming from my slow burn.