Driving By Cows at Night
I like driving at night. Everything seems new and undiscovered, especially when it’s snowing, and the heat’s on, and all you can hear is the noise of air blowing by you and the sound of the tires on the road.
In the town where I live, there are cows. Lots of cows, which are somehow different than horses. Cows are like furniture, like secret agents. They stand still and talk to each other in their low cow voices, undoubtedly sharing crucial bovine information and hoping we don’t notice.
They don’t seem to be cold. It’s all about surface to volume ratio. What you show, versus what you keep inside. How much precious warmth you lose through all your foolish skin. Cows know the secret — be big, be massive, chew your own cud if you need to.
I wanted to get out and take a picture of one, but thought it might be stupid. You know–cold, isolation, manure. So I filed it away in my head, and I am now greater by one cow, a sweet brown one wading in the soft golden lake of a streetlight.
The best part of this, I think, is that I get to both gain a cow and share a cow. Which, by physics standards, is a net zero in terms of energy storage. But fortunately, human infinity has better math. We’re such silly little creatures, but we find ways to keep each other warm.