Three goats, eyes closed, legs folded, in the front yard, soaking up the morning sun. Four hours ago, their day had just begun, nibbling the verdant buffet of a springtime lawn. Humans can not imagine. The hours I have seen people trade to feed their children. From bovines alive on common grass. What is it that we can’t see past? Our selves. Our advancement. Our epidemic of retreat into our own homes. Comparable size. Comparable intelligence. Comparable insight and compassion. Feeding their children on our common nuisance. The money we pay and the gas we burn to wage this war on our front lawns. Why can’t we. See. This place. For what it is. Why do we waste so many assets to shape it what it isn’t. Four hours in on a day that is risen. Though I have not. Spilling out thoughts. Quick clacking of keys on a board laid across my knees. Jealous of the intentionality of herbivores. Something about four stomachs just opens up the world like a key, so that they can eat just about everything. And me, only after it has passed through them. Steak in the refrigerator. Grass too. Invested in the musculature of an animal five times my size, dull brown eyes, windblown black calves chasing down their mothers. You do not have to be a poet to witness this. You just have to be humble. And if you aren’t already, the world will see you humbled. Before your life is really over you will know the thoughts of grassblades and the minds of clover. You will know them to the soul. And why our ancestors believed the animals who feast on it wholesale are cleaner than we are. Three goats, eyes closed, legs folded. Using their breakfast as a bed until the warm reaches their head and then right back to neck bent down nibbling on it. There isn’t much more boon to comparing the two ways in which we live. Who knows whether or not one is any better. Just know, ours if vastly more expensive.