How life Begins

by Abby Staberg

I once watched a cow calve a bull
I was just a kid a few months past 13
on a farm vacation with my parents
who probably now that I think of it
were deep into gin and tonics by the middle of each day.

Firmly on the cusp of adolescence
I had a crush on Roger the farmhand
a city boy of 16 working upstate for the summer
who seemed to know instinctively
the ins and outs of animals and crops.

It was late afternoon more like dusk
bullfrogs croaked their percussive song
as if singing a lullaby to the light
black flies filled the air above the muddy pond
taking over territory that a few hours earlier
had been held by a swath of dragonflies.

When I saw Roger heading up the hill
my instinct was to follow him
he reached the barn
lifted a latch slid the door to the side and went in.

The barn was huge and darker by the minute
until Roger pulled a cord hanging from the rafters
all at once light found its way in
and Roger found me behind him.

“C’mon,” he said, and led me to the cattle stalls.
I’ll never forget the smell of the place
old wood and a mixture of hay and manure
a pungency that wakes up the hair in your nostrils
to remind you you’re alive.

The cow was on her side
she didn’t seem to mind when Roger entered the stall
he spoke to her softly
–I couldn’t hear the words–
and stroked her as she lay there panting.

She switched from side to side as the calf started coming
until it was halfway out
that’s when Roger reached behind her grabbed the calf and pulled
and then it was over.

The calf was still
its mother licked it clean and nudged at it
after a bit it hobbled to its feet fell down
this went on a few times until it stood up steady
I stared at the thick black lashes that almost dwarfed its head
“It’s a bull,” Roger shouted, “we got ourselves a bull!”
His voice found every corner of the barn.

Early next morning I was walking by the pond
heard the farm truck’s engine cranking up
Roger driving saw me stopped to say
he’s going to town to pick up something I forget what
do I want to take a ride
so I climbed up slipped into the seat beside him.

The road to town was mostly dirt
the truck bounced so noisily through the ruts
that talking was tough but Roger managed
to tell me a bit about himself
how it took two busses to get to his high school from home
another to his after school job stacking pallets at a lumberyard
the city he said held nothing for him he hoped he could leave it soon as he turned 18.

Since that summer I’ve marveled at cows
at the power of their loins their mammoth mouths

that gently prod their progeny to life
now when I hear an old pick-up truck sputter along
I swear I feel the rumble of the seat
see Roger’s smile and the dusty road ahead.