Humble Hour

My clear, humble hour-

when I carried a bundle of straw

for the newborn calf

and bent down

and spread the straw

beneath her quivering wetness,

my trembling hand playing

on the little chin

as I put two fingers

into her hot mouth

and cried

a sweet, satisfying cry

in the face of the calf

on Sheva’s farm

in the village of Orot.

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