I wandered the pasture with Fiona as she grazed yesterday and watched as she chose her meal. Some things she snatched from the ground; some she lopped off at the top; some she did not touch.
She charmed me utterly, though, when she bit the blossoms of the field--pink ones and yellow and purple. She caressed them with her tongue and then gobbled them up.
"Of course she eats flowers," I thought to myself. Still, the realization swept me away with gladness, knowing that in the evening milking, she would give us a hidden bouquet, full of sunshine and birdsong and the gentle breezes that tickled the tall grass.