The summer that year was surreally dry,
and the land had sunburn, red and raw.
The soil was yellow; the grass brown; the earth sore;
but the cows lay down for you to die.

As I looked up, I saw this, and said with a frown:
"What are they doing? What does this mean?"
You replied with a shrug, but your weary face seemed
to know exactly why they all lay down.

It wasn't for rain - at least, not from the sky.
The cows must have known - as you did - that your years
were coming to a halt, and they predicted the tears
that fell like a thunder storm from my eyes.