The Native Iowan

A heavy layer of fog blankets the valley this morn. If it’d been a bit colder there would have been a flash frost. But instead we get the thick blanket of fog.

It all makes the world look softer, less distinct. Less rough.

I walk out back to where a couple of my cows are making unhappy noises. I cut a few from the herd last night, thinking they are dry. I was wrong on all counts. A calf is there to meet each cow I had segregated. So much for my skills in state-of-cow-recognition.

I walk back into the property, following the herd. The young-ones canter, jump, kick and show exuberance for life. The cows have a sedate manner about them. They move slow. Matriarchal ships on the paddock. Some allow me to walk near and pet them. The big-bull, Barney, acts like a Caesar, knowing that all he sees is his. He has no competition.

The boys stayed up late last night watching world-cup footie. They remain inside. They miss this walk through the sureal.

I walk through the crisp morning air, into the fog. The low-lying areas with water are thick with vapors. I stomp through the babbling brook, tap a mamma cow on the flank as I walk past her. She looks at me as though I have taken privileges with her.

A young steer gives me an evil eye. He is wanting to test himself. Even though he’s been knacked, he still has that male-butt-heads gene. I clap my hands and he jumps then trots off.

The birds are quiet this morn. I think the temps and the fog have kept them in bed. Or maybe they too watched footie last night.

Smiles