In the little triangular field, across the lane from the barn, is a Welsh Black cow. She had a calf, it was hers, she was its fierce protector and now it is gone. I don't know why. She is bereft, confused and pained by her loss.
Today she has spent in search; in perpetual motion, pacing - pacing the field's perimeter. Her udder, taut between her legs is swollen with milk which will not now be needed and will drip uselessly, drop by white drop into the grass. She bawls a raucous moan which breaks my heart.
I am a mother too and this most terrible of separations churns my gut.