The Road Cow

A cow, a highway, and long days.

The road cow is blissed out. The road cow has eaten a clutch of wild mushrooms, and her cud tastes of umami. The road cow is enjoying this scent as she masticates it for the second of three times.

The road cow likes to chew and watch cars inch around her on the long flat tongue of the highway. The road cow is, after all, a road cow. The road cow knows this road to be lengthy and straight and with good visibility. The road cow does not hold fear within herself. The road cow holds only herself.

Yet, lately, the road cow finds herself drawn to the soft dust of the shoulder. The road cow does not love the asphalt, how it clicks against her hooves and steams in the sun, how she rises from a nap with gravel embedded in her knees. The road cow misses her long-ago years as a road calf, back when the road was dirt and her steps were light.

The farm cows envied the road calf’s novelty back then, her freedom to walk easily and forever in two directions. The road calf would toss her slab of a head and demur. And when night fell, the road calf would tuck her body low and nibble whatever soft grasses she could reach.

The road cow has not known soft grasses for ages. The road cow cannot think of the last time that she mooed with a farm cow. The road cow has been walking on Western highways for years, seeking deeper and deeper skies, finding only cavernous nights.

The road cow has, perhaps, ambled too far.