Cows
Cows turn grass into cow, milk and dung. They mow and manure, combine excretion with harvest, bale grass inside stomachs, then push it out behind them as they go.
Cows smell of the earth and never bathe. They shower in rain, scrub their backs with fences, trees, walls and each other, then dry off beneath towels of sunlight.
Cows produce calves and try to lick them into shape. But they gambol and frolic like lambs, or descend like potholers to cavernous udders and milky stalactites.
Cows lie there like boulders, motionless and full of weight. They flatten grass with quiet dignity and leave their mark on everything they come in contact with.
Cows sleep outdoors, beneath the stars wrapped in blankets of breath and mist. The earth is their only resting place, the Milky Way, their memorial overhead.
Chris Woods
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