Friday, May 20, 2011

Bovine Conversation

The cows lowed in the field. The deep bellow that began deep inside of the large bovine, traveling up the throat of the beast, coming out in an arpeggio of sound that seemed to come from the tail of the cow. Mournful at best, I grew up with the lowing of cattle in the fields.

I think perhaps I took those cows residing in our barn for granted. They didn't do much. They mooed. They were pros at making cow pies. And they ate hay and grass. Eat, Moo, Poo. Cows.

Perhaps it sounds a bit strange, but I miss the smell of the cows and sheep and chickens. I miss the smells that accompanied my life. The smell of freshly cut hay. The smell of Mom's laundry on the line. The smell of grass freshly cut. The smell of the tobacco shed, the haymow, the corn crib. The smells of the past that surprise me when I stumbled across them now and then.

The old cows bellowed, and I didn't know to listen. I didn't know that some day I would wonder why I didn't sit on the fence more often enjoying a bovine conversation. Yes, I know. Not everyone thinks the way I do. But then if they did, perhaps I wouldn't tickle those memories from the past.

Have a wonderful weekend, my friends.

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