Jonathan Humphrey

A Currency of Shovels

If memory serves, it was the second wave of evening mist, cast with a split pea hue, appearing first at the tree line, then advancing towards the pasture. Once washed in that unholy fog, the cows found themselves inside the horses, and in kind, the horse consciousness took up residence in cow. And having been thrust into wholly other bodies, such a bawl and moan and terror rose. The decibel beyond that of the most widespread slaughter. Beyond root canals performed on choirs. Beyond scalding water poured on Mozart. We woke from our beds, every living thing, a sweat stirred from county to county, and wailed in unison, the night sky bruised and pulsing like a shattered ear drum. At dawn, the mist receded, and the animals calmed. We peered with strained eyes at our fields, thick with cow pies and horse droppings. The light fought through flies. There was a currency of shovels.

new moon
the milking stool
missing

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Author’s Note: Haiku first appeared in The Heron’s Nest September, 2020.

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About the Author

Jonathan Humphrey’s work has recently appeared in Acorn, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, and The Heron’s Nest. With a fondness for whiskey and whippoorwills, he divides his time between the lights of Nashville and the woods of his native Kentucky.