The old cows know
grazing and cud,
how to a hold a thought
in the shade, how to
let it linger and settle
beneath certain trees,
earth stirred into beds
of moldy leaves.
The scent left
floats to revisit
when grazing’s done.
No secret place,
no special remedy
but time—time
among the grasses.
drycrikjournal 
John, very nice poem – thank you.
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