I need a cow. I urgently need a cow. That after the February winds let her out on the snow-covered fields. To dinner, zazevavshis, hear her lingering call for the yard, and how otherwise, in the field only to warm up to go. A field of empty colors rolls balls of thorns. The field is still unbecoming.

You run in a hurry, dragging hay on the pitchfork, stumbling. And the cow, as if hurrying, sounds even more pitiful. You'll open the gate, and she jogs her horns down, runs to the manger, pokes her face into the heat that still smells of summer, sun, and ...

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You'll sit down next to me, light a cigarette. Cow raising his head chews measured, almost indifferent.

And soon, very soon we'll go to the distant meadows with you. I'll get up before the sun, put on my robe smelling of milk and a warm cow's side, take a pail, cigarettes and coffee ... While I'm dropping the ashes into coffee, the cow unwillingly and heavily swinging from side to side will stand up, stretching its broad back.

And late summer evening, brushing off mosquitoes ... I need a cow.

I think I need a cow.