W.I.P. (black cow by fence)

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She didn't bother with a shower, just got in the car and drove.  Yesterday's rain was gone, and in its place was a cataclysmic green.  When she got to the long ribbon of road, she eased her foot off the pedal and looked for the black cows that had moved from one hill to another, most of them nosed into a herd, only a handful come down to the thick picket fence to watch for the cars burning through.  It was Sunday, and the traffic was light.  For as far as she could see there were cows and corn, the fence holding things in, the green of the trees on the ridge beyond the corn.