The cows are crying. (not a sentence I ever imagined writing)
A few times a year, our little street echoes with the bellows and moans and outright wails of distressed cows. This means that one of our farmer neighbors has separated the mamas and babies, presumably so that the babies can go to be auctioned.
The sounds of the cows are heartbreaking. I doubt they know that their babies are likely destined for a slaughterhouse, but change on any level is hard.
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