Even cows go to the beach

Even cows go to the beach

to chew cud on the Wild Coast,

their hooves dragging tracks

in the sand. Indian Ocean salts

their hides, their meat, bones. I

watch, hungry. Nine cows, the rolling

hills, the storm sprawling across the

sky, none of us brace ourselves

for the wind, the coming rain.

We listen, trying to find something

that reminds of us home. But, there’s

nothing there,  just the grinding

of teeth on regurgitated grass.