Free Range

Jurassic cattle bellow
Through the aspen-packed canyon
And peek around the white trunks
At our picnic in their path,
Huge heads tilted quizzically,
Tags dangling like cheap earrings,
Checking whether we've left yet.

It's the last day of summer
And already some colors,
In the oaks, in the aspens,
In the orange and camo
Outfits of recon hunters
Starting to sniff out campsites,
Hint of the coming of fall,

But for the most part it's still
Hot, buggy, dusty and green,
And even in the high range
Where the rocks are heaped like teeth
And the white towers of aspen
Leave little room for browsing,
Cow patties reek in the sun.

For all their funk and bother,
Seeming so out of place here
In bear and raven country,
Where wolves once and deer still throng,
The lumbering, complaining
Bovine nuisances create
An echoing, dreamy charm,

Trumpeting through the forest
Around our red-and-white checked
Blanket spread on the bracken
In farewell celebration 
Of largely gentle summer,
Our first spent with our daughter,
Namesake of tree and goddess,

Who shrieks with infant delight
At each glimpse of cows huddled
Up the road, behind a tree,
Staring at her nervously
As she bugles, coos, and trills,
Exulting in her own voice
Commanding this fairy farm.