Warm and humid. The smell of liquid fertilizer drifts up from the valley to the east, and from the west, the sound of trains.
Another gorgeous morning spoiled by the smell of cow shit. I think of the pastoral idyll, land-grant universities turned bloated and foul.
Yellow stained-glass wings of a tiger swallowtail circling the shadowed yard. The smell of cowshit wafts up from Sinking Valley.
Up in the field, five black cattle—some valley neighbor’s escaped stock—emerge from the mist and pause at the sight of their shadows.
In the pre-dawn, Sunday-morning silence, the distant bellowing of a cow. A half moon glows through the fog — a thin milk.