Some I remember as mothers
close to the house
calving the first time—
some better than others
raising a calf, breeding
back up the hill
where they came from.
You’ve sorted them
into another pen
with the old and dry,
thin young cows
without a calf,
without grass
or hay enough
to sustain them any longer.
Cutting deeply,
we prune the cowherd
into goosenecks,
save the best wood
for better seasons
when it might rain.
This is husbandry—
no time or space
for frail emotion.
drycrikjournal 
I know it is hard to do that culling in the best of conditions. The poem says it all, or a lot. Wishing rain for you in these last days of 2013.
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One of the saddest jobs in the cattle business – deciding who goes to town –
especially the ones that have been good cows for a long time.
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Thanks, you both know the weight of these decisions, how they can impact an uncertain future. Do you go with youth or the old girls with a track record who know their way around and how to use your country more efficiently? Always emotional, but no job for the weak hearted. We will survive this, somehow.
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