Saturday, May 7, 2016

My Ash Of A Pasture

It is interesting in how the things Lame Cherry speaks of ends up in Vikinglands and Matt Drudge in trees a soothing.

Mine was not an ash tree, growing from the widening waters of the Mississippi, but was instead a prairie of spring, and a rock to sit upon, as the cool breath of the north washed over me, and my entertainment was baby calf of Posie the cow........a C section miracle really in a long list of miracles, as baby calf was born yesterday afternoon.

Baby calves just do not appear. They require sex, 9 months, and God given fortune to life.

Posie is a shorthorn from England before it was Mullahland. Her udder or bag is now in full production like a milk cow, and is far too full, so it cracked and bled a bit, and she looked so miserable with the tits or teats jutting the adventure was baby calf having sucked out one front tit, and working on front tit number 2, to which Posie was kicking at it as I watched the little calf prevail finally to a fully tummy.

Her bag did not look quite so bad after all of that, but it was all medicinal to a troubled Spirit for sometime.

Prairies I think often are too busy in all those plants, but a pasture cropped seems like one immense sponge to wick all of that emotion with beef surrounding to give the serene moo cow salve.

This Ted Cruz business has been like rubbing steel wool on the skin. It was toxic to get this removed from the body politic, and with other things it just was a point that sitting in a pasture on a quartz rock that I could feel how assaulted I have been by being far too connected to this electronic psychotic brain.
I am pleased my children are out and about in the open air, as it is better than the ether of the internet.

I so not want wings of a dove to fly away, but to just be cleansed of all of this and to sleep for weeks to have a body which sings like the grass of spring again, turning into baby moo cows.