The Cows at the End of the Lane

There are two Aberdeen Angus cows I greet nearly every evening.

Fern is the quieter of the two. She chews slowly, as if she’s always halfway through a thought. Rosie is bolder — she watches me like I might be carrying secrets in my coat pocket. I never am, but I like to pretend I might be.

They live in the field at the end of my usual walking path, just past the old wooden stile that creaks like it remembers better days. I didn’t set out to make friends with cows — I only wanted fresh air and a little less noise in my head — but there they were.

Now I can’t imagine a walk without them.

Fern and Rosie don’t care whether I’ve answered my correspondence or folded the laundry. They don’t mind if I mutter poems or collect moss in my pocket. They are entirely unimpressed by humans, which I find deeply comforting.

The other day, Rosie licked the air like she could taste spring. I knew exactly what she meant.

On the walk home, I passed a crow picking up twigs like puzzle pieces. I found a feather shaped like a comma. And I thought — not for the first time — that the world makes far more sense when you stop trying to make it useful.

Fern and Rosie have taught me that.

Go for the walk. Say hello to the cows. Let the season unfold without needing to name everything. Some things, after all, are only meant to be noticed.

Lady Bergamot

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