The lay of the land favors the dumb-ox, who stares not ahead but always down, where only the next step matters. There are always more clods to turn. Another, fellow-yoked, might make the deal a bit easier but would be a distraction; a reminder, a mirror of one’s own misery. Better then to plod along alone, the self negated step by aporetic step. There is no looking back to congratulate oneself on the fine straight furrow. The harvest will not be witnessed.
Such labor is cheap; if the rain fails and the corn withers, the lack of winter feed (and moonshine) will send the plodder off to an early doom. (which considering the heat expected next summer might not be so bad.) And at least, being geld, there are no offspring to suffer this same ignominious end.
It is rumored automation will replace the stock, do twice the work at half the rate. Well, that’s okay. For there will be a greater ass who’ll be doing the work of two by two.
And dumber too.
poetastrophy 