Hoof-and-Mouth, 260 cases

Hiding from this disease
Seems as fruitless as hiding from the air
As hiding from the changing seasons
As hiding from the windy rain
that finds you no matter what you hide behind

Keeping your animals safe and healthy
Amidst hysteria of people and government
Seems as likely as keeping your feet dry
When crossing a rushing stream on moss-slick rocks
Possible, and so hard you try, possible
But so improbable, it seems

Watching your neighbors' livelyhoods
The inn-keeper, the butcher, as well as the farmer
Go up, literally and figuratively, in smoke
Is as heart-wrenching as seeing a sudden flood wash away a home
And being helpless, from your safe hilltop,
To do anything but cry out in despair

Knowing the pain and heartache you share
The fears and dread of farmers
in Europe, in Argentina, in our own Vermont
The bleak sight of empty countryside
No soft bleat of sheep of shuffling snort of hog
And knowing we cannot help
Tears at our hearts like a sharp rock in a brook-bed
When it meets an unsuspecting bare foot

The cold brookwater washes away the blood
But cannot touch the pain
As we can offer sympathy and understanding
But cannot hope to help heal the wounds
Your battered countrymen bear, but still, we offer