On a country road in mid-Virginia, a cyclist pulls another hill, past a house with mammoth lawn, a dairy barn behind. Oaks and poplars catch the sun and glisten with the grasses, soothing tired eyes with forty shades of southern green. Bovine eyes look up from munching, distracted by a passing beast, a strange one this, not making sense. Free from fence and milking, instead of lying in the shade, she pants a lonely hill. Rebuke arose as proud I watched them, a preacher in a wandering soul. You fear the pain of flimsy fence, perform the duties you suppose your hometown breed imposes. Then came to mind the antsy spirit, wrestling with norms, how I give so much for danger and magnify the little gain. In weariness of afternoon, as alcohol, so legs draw concentration, leave the brain to wander and strain to hold the narrow way, no shoulder, but a drop-off, a coal truck bearing down. Here I go, a long new road, like going back again, not so sure this hilltop hides just another downhill ride.