Let nature take care of itself,
the cowboy said.
The calf on its side for hours,
mouth suckling dirt.
Its fetal, dark hide drying.
The mother abandoned it
in north pasture among sage
and barbwire.
Grieving its
misshapen head.
With binoculars, I watched
in one hundred-degree heat.
Turkey vultures stretched on posts,
red-shouldered hawks circled.
I put the binoculars in my pack,
startling at the zipper’s raw sound,
the closure in my hands.
I, having no children of my own,
took a last look, the smallness of its body,
and I hurried on.
After receiving a B.A. in English literature from Lindenwood University, Ann Robinson
attended the M.F.A. program at the University of Arkansas. Having retired from being
a legal clerk in the Criminal Division of the Superior Court of Marin County,
California, she currently owns a farming operation in Arkansas. She has been the
recipient of the John Spaemer Award for Outstanding Fiction, a Marin Arts Council
grant, and a scholarship to study at Hofstra University.