How do they know, these old fat cows
that read a baggy sadness in my walk
among them checking irons as they pull
alfalfa stems apart to tongue green leaf
in the corral? The gates are set, waiting
for the truck to town. There is nothing
right about the moment, that they know—
little consolation in my voice, they eye me
suspiciously searching for details
in my muted gestures. If I told them
all I know of town, of auction rings
and rails, they would all revolt
for the brushy hills, lay fences down
to take their chances without water
through the summer—that I know.
drycrikjournal 
Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Who goes? Who stays? It has to be hard to let some go that you’d rather keep.
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John: This is so sad, I read your blog every morning and this one really hit home.
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Good to hear from you, Linda. Sorry that it was so damn sad, but sending good, dependable cows to town is tough. Not their fault we’re short of water.
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I do not like that part of the cow business. – Good poem!~
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