This poem was originally published by the Maine Sunday Telegram. One of only three poems I have had published. It went through some revision from the version submitted in the Charles Street manuscript. Most notably, there was a couple of lines around Line 15 that referred to a hunting cat and rats in the hay mow. There was also some lines about swallow babies. I took them out since I felt they were trite and more importantly, it took away from the obvious punchline at the end. Oh, yeah, that's right. . . . that's why they are here. Protection? From whom or what? I cannot remember ever going into the barn and the cattle not being awake and alert; old instincts of the herd that would not go away. That was the genesis of this poem. what are they waiting for, if anything? I don't know about the 'dark wind', but I like the reinforcing power of alliteration. . . maybe more than rhyme. In the published version I changed 'cough' to 'breath' in line 10 to alliterate with betray, but 'calves' and 'cough' work just as well. The night comes in.
The black hulks down over the barn.
From the moonless sky swallows, noiseless,
Dive to nests in the rafters.
Quiet.
And the night creeps in.
Seeps thru broken panes and
Doors banging idle in the dark wind.
The cattle in their muck-lined barn
Are anxious, huddle shoulder to shoulder
Watching the door with ink black eyes.
Behind, against the walls, cows
And calves wait unseen. A cough
Betrays their place.
Pigs rustle in their stalls in
Restless sleep and are still again.
The night air comes in, thick as
Blood on butcher's boots,
And this barn creaks,
waiting.
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