Privately they’d like to dive into bushes
crawl up into the alders behind rosebay
shelter from rays and rinsing dusk raiders
wear out toenails on rough roots
sink their ears into the canopy.

At dusk the calf would like to press
its lashes into its mum’s lap and
drowsily lick to the milky moon
stretch out its tongue and get a taste
of the cold night, sweet like ice cream.

A bull would rather not
let one rip in the breeze
nor scatter the fields with runny
cowpats like licorice but find
a hiding spot from prowling flies.

Black-and-white-thinkers dream easy
of simplicity and happiness
of the good old times
and loving bees
but sometimes cows also dream
of mushary for instance.

Translation Trevor Scarse