A short story of the land

The buttermilk flanks of the White Park cattle scattered the pasture’s western edge by the beech copse, unmoving in the morning mist, as if a loose huddle of field-mushrooms had sprouted overnight. As the rising sun began to burn off some of the fog and the chill, distinctive black noses and ears bobbed up as the entire herd looked to my arrival and the coming feed. They were fantastic grazers and mostly…