The Holsteins have left the hills behind this place. Their paths remain, like those the cyclists plant. They wandered up and down with heavy grace. And when they reached a certain lower point- To grant the necessary push and gain the upward slant - Produced a sudden, faster pace; Surprising, when they seemed so adamant. I miss the bovine rhythm of their day: Its rural patterns reassured my urban mind. Once, from the safety of the porch, in silly, city play, I mooed a nasal greeting toward the herd. The Bull, severely black, custom-designed, Responded deep, with puzzled tone, head slightly turned, as if to say ''So blind that cow, so dumb, to stray so far behind.''