In the muddy pasture

at the end of the lane

black cows graze.

Tufts of unexpected fur

brushstroke their backs

dried manure cakes their sides

fresh-wet slurry

down sturdy shanks

their modest beef-cow udders

lurk turgid

in the dark between.

Their occupation of ripping

grass and vetch with a tearing crunch

of looking up

to chew     to gaze     to drop

flat splatter-pies

barely interrupted by my presence;

the nearest of the dozens

raise their heads

and twist their massive necks

sloughing falls

of cracked crust-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.