Satisfaction

Every morning I see him, as I turn onto state route 30,

An old wizened farmer of at least sixty-five years,

As he trudges up the hill from the barn,

With a bottle of milk held in his puffy, calloused hand.

And over the crest a little brown calf comes running,

Its tail swinging in the air, he runs straight to this man.

Being an orphan, she leaves the herd for her breakfast,

Pushing and suckling and drooling little milk bubbles.

She’s done within a minute, but hesitates a bit,

The old man rubs the curly hair on the top of her little head,

And then she’s off and running, bounding back to the others,

And the farmer makes his way back to the barn,

With satisfaction in his step.