The cows called all night. The storm was peaking over Boulder mountain, the rain slow and light. Four little boys slept in the cab of the semi. They were gone in the morning, presumably up the mountain with their folks to look for stray cattle. They drove the cows down the highway at dusk, not guessing it would be that late, hoping for little traffic. Cow shit piles dot the road, their hooves clomp clomp clomping. I couldn’t tell if it was their feet or dinner about to boil over, with the way the wind blew. The dog gave some pitiful barks, mostly to talk me into letting him inside, where he’d rather put up with the baby pulling his hair than suffer through the beginning of the storm.
My husband was late for dinner. It was dark now, the daylight disappearing dramatically more every day. I eyed the sky, the baby whined. I wrapped her up and got ready to go looking for him. Afraid maybe he fell off the tractor, or twisted an ankle loading the hay up. He was hauling hay by himself from the lower fields. Hunting season is full on though, and I didn’t know where the neighbors were posted up.
A friend of mine lost an uncle. He fell off the tractor, or the tractor rolled on him, or he had a heart attack. Something that kept him out all day, till his wife found him dead. She was a good woman. Stern, but really warmed to a good joke. She always served us cakes when we called in on her, but that is the way with the Swedes. I think of her a lot when I’m alone out here, waiting for my husband to come home.
He returned as we walked out the door.