Trigger Warning
Heavy rain overnight
but the mud doesn’t bother the cows.
If anything, the deep mire
sculpts them in place,
udders full and hanging low,
awaiting their turn at the milking machine.
There’s fifty of them, different skin patches
but all with the same obligation,
hang out by the shed
until your number is called,
so a day’s worth of regurgitation, rechewing,
and the hard work of rumen, reticulum,
omasum and abomasum,
can squirt out white into a bucket.
A slow blink is the only sign
of facial expression.
Just like the males at the slaughterhouse.
But those are led to their death.
Not to their hoofprints from yesterday.