A poem about Idaho

I'm in Idaho, somewhere between Jackson Hole and Salt Lake City. Matted sky, spring muted greens and gold stretches of earth. Homesteads painted absently on small plots lain claim to by who knows who and where who knows when. Snow decorates more densely the higher the climb. And the road drags toward anywhere but right here and now. I wonder how these families survive out here and why here and not there or anywhere else? I notice the cows who appear to define boredom, slated to exist for the purpose of someone else's pleasure and bred away from a self directed life to one of confined survival. In many ways we are the cow and the farmer. I respect the farmer for his diligence in making use of the land so that citizens might spend their lives designated to other tasks in the advancement of our civilization - such as the drabble I propose to you now. The farmer provides. Obviously the cow has become unnecessary, but who will free the cow? Will the cow be slowly made obsolete - intentional endangerment? Will the cow find a new purpose, or after much fenceless grazing become domesticated without borders and return to the food cash hungry and all too soft to wander in freedom? What will happen to all species as humans explode in population? Shall we need to find a purpose for all creatures or will the charm of boundless nature stimulate us enough to set aside a habitat for those more fortunate and colourful? Idaho, a land where the mind may travel unobstructed to places beyond low shrub and rolling field.