Chewing the cud

It's my favourite time of day:

Backing the bike up to the barn, throwing down the bales, taking them through the bush to the cattle.

I stop the bike in the clearing and start to cut the blue bale strings with a curved, serrated knife I found in the inherited contents of my Grandmother's second drawer. Isabelle comes to take a corner of the bale, tossing her horns while I swing out of the way.

I spread thick biscuits on the grass, far enough from each other so the cows won't tangle their horns.

They lumber up to the hay, puffing.

Birds call in the bush, there is a slight wind. Pigs are grunting low in the distance. As I sit on the bike the metal tings, cooling.

From the cows, their jaws moving from side to side:

Munch...munch...munch

Munch...munch...munch

The hay sounds thick and wholesome, resonating in their skulls. It disappears in seconds as teeth slice it off for chewing later.

Munch...munch...munch

Munch...munch...munch.