Sometimes you go hiking, and sometimes you will see a cow, a cow with dreams twisted up with bits of aubergine. Aubergine, she thinks would be a good name for my next one, the one I will teach to wander away from the fold, to that place I can reach only with my eyes. I will lay her on the sweet grass away from the others, so that she will cultivate a taste for it, and all other grass will be bitter by comparison, and those that eat it will seem alien and rough. Every day I will move her, until she becomes accustomed to the peculiar and will recognize no part of this place as her home.
She will sleep instead, with a cold, coarse shard of curiosity. In time, she will wander away in the night, down the hill, over the stream and through the river. She will move with quiet assurance over the unfamiliar terrain, until eventually she finds her way over there, that place where the light reflects off the water. When she does, the only thing we will share is the sky. She may even miss me, but only just a little.
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