by Jeffery Allen Tobin

In the far field, a red calf nudged the smaller one away from the salt lick. No great violence, just a sharpness in the body, a muscle speaking louder than the rest. The smaller calf waited, tail twitching, hooves shifting, then turned toward a corner of the pasture where the fence bent low and the grass grew wild, untouched. I watched from the fence post. I’d come here to be quiet, to think about how some things arrive early in us and stay – like the boy in third grade who found my name funny, said it again and again until I began to hear it crooked. Still, the calf who lingered by the low fence did not sulk. It chewed a bit of thistle, blinked slowly, and watched a crow settle on the post beside it. The larger one kept eating, licking, pushing. It was just a calf, too. Hungry. Unaware of its own need. The wind carried the smell of pine and earth. A truck groaned down the gravel road and disappeared. I thought of how many names I have now, most of them my own choosing. Of how I once called that boy mean until I saw him years later in the library, hunched over a book, lips moving as if he were still trying to say something true. The calf by the low fence stayed there a long time, not waiting, not sad, just being where it was. Later, the red one came close again, slower this time, and they stood side by side. No one wins a salt lick. The fence doesn’t remember the quarrel. The crow flies off. The field holds them both.

Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. A Pushcart nominee, Jeffery has been writing for more than 30 years. His latest poetry collection, Scars & Fresh Paint, was published in 2024 with Kelsay Books, and his poetry, prose, and essays have been featured in many journals, magazines, and websites.