Tight cluster of cows

draws radaring periphery.

I rein in my bike,

burble slow, passive, inoffensive

towards them,

the sheepishest of undogged

stock surveyors.

...

Solemn they stand,

one steer leaking chagrin,

almost nonchalant.

All gloom-glum,

faces appropriately genuflected,

eyes pulpited,

though not up, but down,

their focus is.

Listening they are -

intent,

heeding the sermon of birth –

for has not One just now,

issued?

Fine illustration

of Nature's commandment:

Thou shalt bring forth

extraordinary propagation –

for have I not

gilled the world with green

for you, explicitly?

my splay-footed Chosen,

my children of the Grass.

...

Young mum

slurps up slippery afterbirth,

greedy she is for the gift

of expelled nutrient (in a manna

of speaking)

lard-coloured, sticky-

streaked with livery residue.

Though unaccustomed

to meat,

she eats all of it,

coughing it out again, almost

choking, spuming, foaming

out strings and gobbets,

bubbles of mucus-coloured waste

but still, persisting,

cleaning

her cherished child of wet.