by
Mary Stewart Spearman
The Last herd standing at the gate
Sweetly nourished in their plight
Not really knowing their true fate
They didn’t put up much of a fight.
Soft mooing and nudging in the field
For the best spot at the gate
Large bales of harvested hay yield
To an unrelenting fate.
Nourishment comes at the hand of the one
Sweet, dry, hearty relief.
He unties the bales and cast towards the sun
Not thinking about the grief.
The last Thanksgiving together they shared
A meal of blessings
Unaware of the future that they both bare
There was no confession.
The last herd standing at the gate
Happy, healthy and cared for
Living their purpose not worried about fate
For they were the Last Herd, no more.
