There was a piece of white ice on the top of the mountain, a small cloud was silently breaking the bonds of the blanket on top of the ice. Under the cloud, the dandelion was happy, and over the cloud, over the herds, over the hawk, over the mountains, over the mountains and forests, the clean winds of other worlds carried a great sun.
The grass was of a taste never seen there, and now and then the herdsman would come and shout at the herd why they were eating the delicious grass, and the herd would graze greedily. Alas, they had had their fill a long time ago, but the butler did not come. A stream started from the ice and came and went through the cows. The cows could hear by the corner of their ears that there was a stream. They ate grass, under their bellies, their veins carried milk in abundance, and they kept telling themselves that there was a stream.
Immersed in the hot aroma, a buffalo was grazing in a ravine. The hoverers had not carried any scent from that canyon because they had not entered the canyon. The herd could now come, trample and pollute that valley, that's why the buffalo grazed posing and threatening. Also, the grass became tasteless, it became just dry straw. The stream was close. But the back began to freeze. So the cloud was holding against the sun. Gomesh tried to shake the shadow off his back with a shudder, but the leather was hardening on him. Head held high, the buffalo waited for what would happen next, and the blood in his veins slowed and dried, then became sticky, congealed and stopped, and the world muffled and stilled in his ears. The world was dead and dark, now the cloud was going to burst, the wind, the lark, the stream had come in... once again the veins widened and the blood ran freely, easily, with a gurgle.
The buffalo came out of the valley, and in the mist the cows, the telestanas, the silent cloud were beautiful, but there was no other buffalo in the herd. The blood warmed in him, his calves woke up with a slight pain and warmth, and his spine was already tingled with pleasurable bumps from the neck to the tail. He changed his foot to go and fight with the bull of the cows, but he saw that he did not want to go, the evil melted and slipped out of him.
In the deep silence, the grasses weaved thread by thread a veil of fragrance across the face of that green world, and with the fragrance was woven a sweet smell.
The buffalo grunted.
The cows looked, it wasn't the guard, it was the buffalo, it was mooing. The cows continued to graze in an abundance of untamed soft grass, in their fertile contentment with the proximity of good water, the presence of their silky bull, the flow of milk and the warm sun.
The buffalo set off. The udder was lovingly kneaded between the two straws and the buffalo went to milk the nan. The plateau turd swayed in his gaze and disappeared, the buffalo plucked a couple of mouthfuls of grass in the valley and got lost. Yes, it was going to go. And why is the herd still grazing? The herd is cows, he is a grain of buffalo - that's it!
He stood at the door of the tent, called and waited for the nun to come out.
"Have you come?" said Nan.
"Why did you come to lunch today?" said Nan.
- The herd breaks up: you got up.
- Well, it's good that you came, come milk me.
- Your breast is half open, where have you come from?
The milkman was not milking well, the udder was hurting. The buffalo craned its neck, sniffed - it was the smell of the nanny, it was the voice of the nanny, but this time it was not milking very well. The buffalo saw that he did not want to be milked. Far off in the distance, in the warm mists, groups of buffaloes are standing and one of them is heading towards this with the head of the forests and roads.
- Huh, Satik... you trample your nan, who will milk you?
- No, you didn't bring milk, you didn't give what was there either.
- Whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah, you crushed your nan.
- Minas... the buffalo looks kind of in my eyes.
- Ha!... my buffalo wants a bull.
- My buffalo wants a bull. July, August, September... March... March, May... a good time to give birth. I will give your child a bochu leaf... there will be a green sun, there will be May...
The buffalo stopped at the top of the hill and looked across the green world of the god to the distant white valleys.
The fox had died in a shady place among the old trees, so that the grass would not interfere and the hawk of the sky would definitely see his body. And so true was the dead fox, that the wind carried him away.
In the distant white valleys, under the mists, heated herds of buffalo swayed, and among them a warm and powerful one, holding his head high, made his call to this. The buffalo growled and broke away from the top of the hill towards the valley...
What is he doing, what is he doing, what is that animal doing, the fox ran at him. Let's not dig that cursed house in that soft soil...
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