Fearful cows. Proud buckets. Sequestered and barbed. Three freckles. A constellating of anchors. Violating space. The long road travelled and the long road ahead. Each length, perfect reflection of the other. You are travelling as a mirror. Roving. Violating time. Swallowing hours. Draped. A shroud of volition. The sky is still crying. The sea is angry. You hear it sometimes, underneath the wind’s wails. It can hear you. Sometimes. But always it sees. Violating mind. What it sees sends sun to sky and turns rain to tears of joy, collected in proud buckets, that drizzle down, dousing the faces of fearful cows.
Subservient only to the wind the gently blowing of the sycamore, the soft green hues that line the countryside. Small tufts of grass uprooted by the gentle tug of the cows, endlessly wandering the pastures.
The slow plod of time, marked by the solitary grazing of the lone herd. My steps marking the familiar indentations of stretched gravel roads that seem to continue infinitely
A set rhythm of the land, enclosed by rusted barbed wire, stretching for acres against the slanted posts forced upon one another. Lush green trees cradle the relentless sky
I beckon for the cows to follow They do so, blindly not questioning the authority of the one that offers food. I’m greeted like a deity of honeydew and apple blossoms. Bearing these gifts, I am welcomed by the cattle that I care for so dearly
I spend day after day with the cows Growing closer, caring for the new calves, cherishing the bond that was built. I begin to love them more than I love myself
Soon the long summer days, turn to the crisp evenings of autumn. I follow my familiar route to the pasture Hopping the fence, whistling a cheerful note, but today is different. The trees were singing a somber tune as if the birds were crying out pleading with the heavens above.
Green, long grass. Fields tamed by stone walls Fences twisted by stray twigs. Breeze that brushes through Cows' ears and lambs' wools Strokes my hair as I stare With glee knowing that we Are joined by this same sensation.
Perhaps they avoid stepping on bluebells And then regrettably flatten buttercups like me. Might they not step on the cracks between stones, As I do not step on cracks between drains?
We share the same fear as other humans approach, Ready to flee if they come too close. For they could be the death of us Or we the death of them. Once this fearful distance is breached What will happen then?
Cinnamon winters the rolls. If my past childhood memories serve me correctly. Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow leaves a sweet kiss behind. My lips follows, with an expected sigh. To again taste one of many... the many tasty treasures left behind by the Elusive divine. In that very moment; where the sweet cinnamon lubricates my feisty lips. All is ******* history. Isn't it? And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure with many sinful bites. Smoked a cigarette afterwards. There was a no smoking sign. Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix. On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived. a few crumbs in its wake still exists. Confusion is typical of this kind of ish. When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014 by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Consciousness pouring out of me disguised as words. I am craving cinnamon rolls.
Miniature Cows Miniature, you might not see it. Realistic, you might mistake it. Creative, how can anyone make it? Fast and slow, can you see it's patterns? Brown, black and white, yet no blues and blonde. Can you see the light or are you stuck in the eventide?
2. Cows in the field The cows are dancing in the field, the green grass below their feet. "Moo!" the cows cry in joy, with the birds flying in the electric, light blue sky. 'Why can't I fly?' thought one cow, who was stuck on the ground forever and more. But this cow is sure about one thing, They can fly, but only in dreams.
I thought 'why not' and posted another one, but I saw the second one and did both.