Clef

I saw some cows today. Thinking cattle thoughts and breathing thrips out of the air. Black and white flanks all piled together in the long grass tufted with chickweed and yarrow. Still and warm with suedey ears like crepes folded into a paper coronet and filled with black insulation fluff. Around clockwise, around anti-clockwise, back and forth, start again. Gyroscopic inky-tufted cones of cowhide. Shoo fly.

But the rest of the cowhide rested. Grassy exhalations wandering through beats and over entire bars, sostenuto out of suitcase lungs. The lights, so goes the culinary. A careful rear hoof itch-cocked. Crump, crump largo, grass champed into damp green pucks, oddly treble fabricky tearing mass miniature uprootings, anthill hair-root earth-movings.

A buttercup yellow dredger clipped the weeds growing in the riverbed. A-yoom-a, a-yoom-a, all the time in the world. Eclipse mallards in his wake. A single sculler, blades laid backs to the water, perdendo.