Editor’s Note: This story is a work of fiction published in the fun spirit of Halloween. This story is on the opinion page and is a work of fiction, not a factual account of events in Cibola County.
I am a cow with a bell-shaped mind. My thoughts go grass, water, sleep, calf. The field is stubbled hay off Highway 53 where the Zuni Mountains hunch against the stars. The farmer leans on the fence and says I am a good cow. I am. I chew.
Past the fence, yucca spines hold the moon like ribs hold breath. Then the sky gets a new sound: a thin, soft whine, like the wire on the gate when the wind pulls just right. The calves lift their heads. I lift mine.
The ship comes down behind the yucca, not louder, only nearer. Blue light combs the grass. It feels like a lick of snow. The rabbits flatten. Three tall shapes unfold from the light.
They walk the field without steps. Their hands are spider-plants. Their faces are midnight. They circle a yucca and point at its green tongues and hard moons of fruit. One tilts its head, listening to the plant. I think maybe we are the same: we stand, we swallow light, we wait for rain.
One comes to me. I do not spook.
A blue hand rests between my horns, and my bell-shaped mind fills with a lake. I cannot say “moo,” but the sound is there, soft and round as a full udder.
The farmer clanks the gate. His boots scrape dirt. “Hey there!” he calls, half worry, half scold. His flashlight makes a weak hole in the blue.
The tall shapes turn their midnight faces to him the way cattle turn to thunder.
Their hands open, and the light answers. The farmer’s hat lifts like a dry leaf. The fence staples sing. The gate sighs. The blue light gathers him up, neat as hay baled by a careful man.
It is quiet again. The rabbits unflatten.
The ship rises through the yucca and is gone, taking the new sound with it.
Dawn comes thin and cold. I stand where I stood, a good cow.
On a fencepost hangs the farmer’s hat, brim smoking with frost. The yucca fruits gleam. The gate is shut by no one at all. I chew. The calves do not lift their heads. Somewhere above the Zunis, a small round window looks back and blinks.