It must be summer, as there is only screen in the window, letting in a soft, gentle breeze. In the far distance, one can hear the mooing of cows.
Ambling.
Simpler times.
Simpler lives.
Moments counted.
Remembered.
Passionately savored.
Outside the window, a new world. Man sacrificed. At any cost. Spirituality replaced by superstitions. Mortgage waiting payment.
Cows are but dinner with a side of fries.
Moments are lost and drift skyward, to be swept away by winds of chaotic turmoil.
Hanging on the cross,
the man tips his hat with a wink.
I pray for him.
I pray for me.
I pray for us.
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Till the Cows Come Home can be seen at ArtWorks until mid-February
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