I may go back to the farm, I may very well go back to finding steaming new calves on frosted mornings, warnings from their old moms to keep my distance, sod-busting implements and maple syrup daydream existence, hayloft fights, bare-bulb bedroom lights illuminating scanty-clad magazine women smiling at the furtive fellow; hell, it’s what I had. Saturday bath and Sunday hath-nots and shalt-nots, cow shit and old math and raspberries, dairies and cheese, more weeds than corn, a real damned horn-of-plenty where there are twenty-seven songs to sing about the fun of  most everything, if you feel like singing at all.

the spotted cows
teaching rumination
their great wisdom