There was this hairy, black, long, rounded mucus-covered package come slowly sliding out the rear end of a angus cow, standing alone in the middle of a spring-green Carolina meadow. Momma slowly turned and began licking and nudging the gently moving life package, and within moments baby gave out the weakest imaginable moo. And, like a spaceship landing on an alien planet, within 15 minutes baby unfolded her long long legs and, first on her front knees, then back legs, then front legs, stood. And soon walked without falling.
Baby turned and said something to momma.
“What did you say, honey? ‘Course there’s more than one cow—see all those big black shapes over there—each of them is a cow.”
“I didn’t say there is one cow, momma … I said there is one god.”
“OK fine … now drink your milk.”
In the Spring, flocks of odd-looking birds: robins, land, walk and hop around yards. They always appear in profile, putting one eye forward, hieroglyphically, intensely examining the landscape. They hop, and they spy, and, once spied, they super-quickly enbeak an unfortunate earthworm, and begin pulling. And within seconds, out of the worm’s anus comes the nearly inaudible cry: ‘There is one god.’