Ranging over seaside prairies.
Proud as pitch, and the blackest Holstein.
Commanding the stares of child and adult travelers,
Who gape in awe and ask,
“What are those?”

So oddly still on sight.
Changing position when we look away?
Shining in the sun and moon light,
Dotting fields across the land.
“What are those?”

Much taller than a man,
Imposing as one, terrible in numbers;
While at once, gentle, quiet, and still.
They are sleeping, but with an eye open.
“What are those?”

Says Dad, with authority,
“Those are Icelandic boneless cows.”