Perspective

The soft light spackled the ground, dancing with the shadows and leaves. The leaves hummed with the lazy breeze that offered soft kisses as it passed through. The wind's kisses weren't so soft to some, however.

The woody stem gave way to the wind's affection, and the delicate fruit began to fall. How lucky to be caught in the strong arms of the branches just below. The wind, however, was a relentless lover. The leaves rattled, and the branches shook gently, once again jostling the sun-ripe fruit from its place.

It tumbled several branches down to a knot in the wood, tender flesh bruising and bumping along the way, landing broken by a modest nest, saved again by unknown benevolence. The journey was not over for the odd little fruit. After all, a nest is a home, and, eventually, the master of the house always returns.

The tender green flesh seeped sticky sweet juice as the beak seeking a snack pushed a little too hard on the large lower globe of the pear, sending it toppling down yet again through the branches and leaves below. How many times must it fall until it lands where it will stay? The fruit, bruised and broken, could not take much more.

The pear finally fell to the soft grass, meeting several others the wind had jostled from their homes among the branches. In the glistening patches of light, sticky dew from the abundant falling fruit coated the long, green blades of grass. It was then deep moos filtered in just above the sound of the leaves and wind.

Huge bright eyes reflected the battered skin of the pear, and a large, velvety nose flared against the sugared ground. Deep grunts of joy followed a fat, dripping tongue around pieces of the fallen fruit. Soon, more grunts filtered over the wind.

Three more Holsteen heifers trotted over the hill into the shade of the old pear tree, overwhelmed by their discovery. The heifers frolicked between sloppy bites of pear, flinging sweet juice from their drooling maws all around them like spider silk. Their loud moos were heard across the pasture, drawing more of the heard.

Across the pasture was the house of a farmer. The farmer was content with his life. He had a beautiful wife, two young hands to help bail hay, and another, newer set that held tightly on her mother's hip. It was Sunday, and although it was the Lord's day, the farmer decided it was best to go fishing instead of attending church with his family.

Well-loved black heels dug into packed mud, shuffling two well-dressed boys ahead of her while she shimmied a bundle of pink frills and bows up higher on her hip. It was a beautiful day, sun shining on their pasture, obscured just enough by the canopy of their orchard. It was only a short walk to the Sanctuary from where they lived, the town not big enough to earn the designation.

They had only made it a quarter of the way across the pasture when they felt a rumble beneath their feet. The mother swiveled her neck from side to side, alert. It was when she turned to look behind her that a screech broke from her throat. She took the arms of her boys the best she could, fleeing from the cattle rushing to follow their herds' moos of "food!"

Thirty-four cattle rushed toward them in a blur of pink snouts and ink spots, their frenzied excitement causing a stampede. The woman tried to push her boys out of the way. She held her daughter close as she tried to get away herself, but none of them were able to escape crushing hooves and the deep, desperate moans of hungry livestock.

The farmer came home late that afternoon, deciding to stop at the local pub for a drink before strolling down the rural dirt road home. "What was that?" he thought to himself, squinting to see the long, red streaks on his pasture.

He started to fume. "Damn Neighbors," he thought, "Paint on my grass? Because I wouldn't let his damn cows graze on my land?" He broke into a jog to inspect the damage but soon sped up for a different reason.

He started to scream when he saw what was left of his family, trembling as he crumpled to his knees to vomit. He didn't notice the broken fence at the edge of his property, nor did he hear the chorus of moos echoing over the trees.