In Wyoming baby cows are born with fluffy white clouds for faces.
Birds fall fast and furious from the sky. Don’t worry; they don’t get hurt. It’s all an act, like Houdini, a slight of hand.
Just like the hills that converge and rise, roll and fall. They creep around at night, cups in a guessing game. In the morning you swear that one had been there and that one there.
The cows grow older, and their faces look like regular old cow-faces from any old book, and the birds stop fooling around and catch mice from the fields. The stars multiply.
The sheep count them to get to sleep.