Calving

 Calving

 

 

Packed inside the corral, mother and child

Are wedged against a man.

 

In the rotting barn I yield the Iron,

Marking their place in the heard.

 

We force them through the chute,

Making selections as we reach its end.

 

The ones who stay are cared for,

The others sent to slaughter.

 

The heard nurtures and manifests,

Feed daily by the man with kindness.

 

For their survival is in our hands,

Choosing their fate at chute’s end.