in a field outside of town

The ghost cows of Kewanna keep
their gazes down. We are all stories
after we pass but while we're alive
bulls terrorize, and calves impose
terrible eyes. Ghosts never glance
over, just sway giant muzzles
like machines without owners.
What they are doing no one

surmises or, for that, pays them
much mind. We're driving down
Seventeen. Out the window they
sentinel our tired blonde days.
I've never known them to notice
silence transgressing, nor question
my asking what are they hiding
beneath those awful white hides.

Sadly, they munch under night soaked
skies. Are we nothing to them behind
those fences, their faces too placid
or are we just blind? I shift and hit
the gas and tear on out of there.
No story's related. After we've
gone, ghost cows of Kewanna
continue their graze.