As I went out this morning before dawn

I heard the cows bawling, and a voice—git-up,

a sound I know intimately, as intimately as completion.

It was cold and dark, the guys were up early 

working cattle, and though half a mile up the road

the sounds were clear—the voice, voices, gates slamming,

two dogs barking, doing the work of a dozen men

or a half dozen women, every sound familiar and intimate—

and distant in time and space—taking me somewhere

I've put behind me, not far enough, taking me

to a few places this morning, in the cold, moonless pre-dawn,

taking me to some dark places—injuries and hurt, fear

and loathing, anger—but also to a sunny place, and though

it is hard to put the other out of mind, it is a sunny, bright day, now,

and now is what is at hand, and what was, isn't.