With lukewarm tongs I hold this swaying cow. She’s dripping cubes into the cove below. And little Hank fills his glass and blows the bubbles in my face and I laugh: ho ho … O blissful, plump swimmer in Life’s disfigured crossword, don’t frown. I’ll set you down unchurned-up. Now you’re happy and dumb and Hank can dip his donut in the wind … A hooded figure slithers by, an oblong reptile with dahlias for eyes. I pause, curse, and bend, pick up a squeezed-out tube of something blue. The hooded figure sneezes. “Kazoontite,” I say. “Well, I guess I’ll be moseying back to the barn. If I don’t get back soon I’ll miss the Farm Report.” “Is that you in there, Ma,” little Hank detected. “You sure scared Pa, fooled him good this time.” This farm-funning is going to give me a nervous breakdown. And I suppose this squeezed-out tube of blue means something, too, like bald-faced vexation. The hooded one shakes her beak: yes.