Todd Turnidge

Cow Town

Winter, sitting under the eaves, looking west.
The hidden Pacific pushes fog over the Hecker Pass.

It spills into the valley and in an hour
the fog will lift as it always does

then retreat through the redwoods.
I miss my rooster even though he was a dick.

We were both in the business of being men.
Certain days the smell of garlic

from the Christopher Ranch processing plant
washes the whole town of Gilroy.

It’s a good smell. The smell of people working.
The happier I get the less I need

to believe in free will.
The older I get the more I like

to sit and watch the hills behind my house
in an old plush armchair

that is outside getting wrecked by rain.
Today, the beef cows walk spiral paths

through gray winter grass. How the hell
did I end up here, in this small town, in love

with this hill?
I don’t feel the need to change

anything at all anymore.
I’m in love with these aimless Angus cows.

How they will wail
when the ranchers come for their calves.

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Todd Turnidge is a writer, artist, and flower farmer living in Northern California. He received his M.F.A. from Pacific University. His poems have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Copper Nickel, and The Southern Review. Instagram: @turnvax