Phebe Davidson
A Change of Season
Where pasture slopes to river, something
that is almost light rises and sheets into air.
Charley Morton’s cows wade and emerge
glistening with it. They are transformed
though I can’t say how. They are dripping
and they shine. Their udders are not yet full.
I watched the boy we’d thought drowned
walk out of the water next to a Guernsey.
He was dripping and shining like the cow,
his skin, when he first emerged, so transparent
I could see through him to what lay beyond.
His footprints filled with water and dried.
I can’t see anything now except that boy,
growing denser, more opaque with every step.