by Richard Dinges, Jr.
Cattle
Black blots against yellow corn stalk stubble, they low drawn out rumbles, tremors drown by
morning breeze. When I pass, they raise
their heads, chew in
thoughtful prayer before they lower their heads for another mouthful, too intent to waste their
moments on earth wondering what I might want.
Ring
Ringless, my fingers spread to grip smooth wood tipped by steel. My wedding ring thinned with
time, warped to weird shapes, cut off blood flow until my
finger blued. Removed, my hands are free to breathe,
to grasp hard things and hold tight again, with trust that I will slip it back on anew.
Richard Dinges, Jr. works on his homestead beside a pond, surrounded by trees and grassland, with his wife, two dogs, two cats, and five chickens. Oddball, Schuykill Valley Journal, Grey Sparrow, Wilderness House, and Illuminations most recently accepted his poems for their publications.