An odd whistle

In the early sixties
My grandparents still had the farm
And granddaddy still raised cattle
On the rolling hills of Tennessee
And when the Herefords' horns were polled
My father would sometimes take a discarded horn
And sand and drill and polish
Until he had fashioned a musical horn
From the bullock's discarded pride

And when the sun dropped to the horizon
And supper awaited us, Frank and me,
When all the other fathers and mothers
Would stand on their front porches
And whistle and call,
Jimmy? Johnny? David? Steve? Supper!

But for us, the low, moaning baritone
Of a cow's horn would drift over the neighborhood
And we would prick our ears, just like the calves
In the fields back home
And we would lope on homeward
Through the suburban fields of our youth
Answering a calling too oddly personal for the other children.