Ghost Cows

In this pasture, the cows only come out at night.  I suspect vampire-cow hybrids.  A herd of bovires.

Enchanted Pasture

P.S. Earlier this summer, I hurtled the Campmobile across the bridge and over the Tomahawk, which runs adjacent to this ghostly pasture.  A gang of country ruffians, no more than 8, just about threw themselves on the hood, screaming, “BUY SOME LEMONADE!” in more of an order than a hopeful request.  I was so freaked out, I skidded to a stop on the side of the road and bought two cupfuls of yellow-ish liquid while their grampy, a crumbly man of at least 112, supervised.  I calmly stepped backed into my vehicle and got the hell out of there, their toothy grins emblazoned upon my skull.  Only afterwards, after my knuckles stopped rattling, did I dare taste their childish concoction.  The sensation can only be described as water torture via sugar-cubed swamp muck.  I tossed the rest of the jaundiced sludge out the window.  Never did I see these child-barbarians, these keepers of the bovires, again.