Moo-ving, a
Pasturized Pastoral
by Joan Leotta
Miles of steel
skyscraper
dominated my childhood days
except for that one week
when our family headed across
the PA turnpike to the sea.
Between tunnels, views of
fenced fields offered
cows and barns and corn as sights.
"Say hello to the cows, dear,"
my father advised.
"They will answer."
Mom rolled down her window,
I leaned forward. Dad slowed down.
I shouted,"Hello!"
"No, no," my mother corrected.
"You must speak cow."
"Mooooooooooo," shouted my
mother
as we drove up toward
another clutch of spotted
bovines seeking shade under
a roadside tree by their fence.
"Mooooooooooo," called
out my father and mother.
"Mooooooooo" shouted back one
cow.
"See, that's their language,"
Dad said.
At the next fenced pasture
"Moo, moo, moo," I chimed
in at the next pasture.
One polka dotted lady raised her
head and nodded at me.
"Mooooooo." she replied
as we whizzed by.
"Dad, next pasture, can we stop
so I can call a cow to the fence and pet
it?"
A tunnel was coming.
Dad took off his sunglasses.
He shook his head.
"Hard to stop along this road.
Besides, we have to keep
Moooooooving along."
Mom and Dad both laughed
I frowned, disappointed
but not cowed by their response. |
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