In the muddy pasture at the end of the lane black cows graze. Tufts of fur brush-stroke their backs mud-manure cakes their sides dark-wet slurry down sturdy shanks their modest beef-cow udders lurking turgid in the dark between, their occupation ripping grass and vetch with a tearing crunch, of looking up to chew, to gaze, to drop manure in flat splatter-piles barely interrupted by my approach— the nearest of the dozens raise their heads and turn their massive necks shifting cracked mud-scales to level onyx eyes assessing me still and steady a steamy breath before, without the faintest trace of thought, they swing their shining snouts back down to earth.
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