The cows were in the margins today.
I was treading through piles of their powder-dry
elegant rejections. They were staying nice and cool in the shade while I was kicking up spray-storms of fallout.
A throaty warbler. A percussive cheep. Something sonic in the hedgerow. That was the gist of it.
You could call this an attempt at prayer. An attempt to call upon my higher power though someone somewhere would no doubt get all up in my face about it, would get all exercised at my choice of doxology.
O cows, how do you do this thing you do? This lingering-on-the-edges, this solid disregard for anything but grass? And air. Sometimes flies. This absence.
I have seen you running through a field fleet like horses but that was years ago. Clearly you don’t make it a habit.
Cows, I bow to you. I will bow my head and learn.