Ficly

Frost

Yesterday afternoon, there were vultures circling above the cow pasture. They soared down in lazy arcs and bounced into the grass. The cows got upset with them and set about to crying. One of the young bulls charged at the vultures and they took off, soundlessly, to begin their circles again.

So, this morning, when I went out to harvest the cabbages after the frost had melted off the fields, I didn’t worry too much about the cows and their crying. I assumed whatever had died out there was still dead and the vultures had come back to claim their share. After a while, though, when the cows didn’t stop crying, I went over to the pasture fence to see what was going on. The cows all came over to me at the fence, their lowing deep and insistent, and I didn’t see a single ragged, black bird.

“I don’t understand you,” I told the cows. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

This story has no comments.