There are moments and experiences that define home to people. A soothing accent, a familiar landscape, a certain meal or drink all affirm you are near your roots.
It was a little after midnight, and I was headed home with my cousin. She was catching me up on local gossip when my headlights flashed on a huge group of bicyclists speeding toward us in the opposite lane.
Bicyclists with hooves and horns. Mooing bicyclists. More precisely, a herd of cattle that had escaped their field and taken it upon themselves to relocate. They were running full tilt toward freedom. (This was incidentally also the direction of the local stockyard which I am sure came as a shock to the escapees. It's like breaking out of prison and taking refuge in the lethal injection chamber. Poor planning.)
I realized I was home when the first thought I had wasn't "why are there cows in the road?' but rather 'at least they are staying in their lane'.
Nice to know living in the city all this time hasn't erased the country from me.
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