High relief in stained glass

I can’t help but wonder how a cow feels as it stands in line waiting for its turn to be slaughtered. I heard somewhere once that unlike the slaughterhouses of old, where helpless cows would be mercilessly clubbed to death in some filthy Sinclairian hell, today’s slaughterhouses employ more humane techniques. The procedure is quite efficient. The livestock is led single file thru a series of winding tunnels, they have no notion of what lies ahead, they can only focus on the rear quarters of the animal directly in front. Upon reaching their destination they are rendered unconscious by a high- powered metal bolt. Their limp body is then suspended upside down by one of their hind-legs, of course this breaks the leg and connecting hip immediately. The cow’s throat is quickly slit and the unconscious animal bleeds to death, never awakening. It's a very efficient process, it really is. Very efficient. And that’s how I sit in this throbbing, ungodly morning traffic – confused eyes locked on the car in front of me, willing it to go faster, as I patiently wait for what could be MY turn in the slaughtering pen. My thoughts wander to happier times, old yellowing memories. My glazed eyes glance to the side of the road and for a moment I am taken back to the ocean. Languid days shore-fishing with Grandpa. The million shards of crunchy glass, a collection of countless fender-benders, countless fragments of windshields, small snippets of death and trauma and white blankets swathed over an inert husband or father or lover or son who won't be coming home tonight… some accident gone horribly awry, black ties and long faces, and a million shards of crunchy glass take me back to the sea and it’s shiny shells and brilliant black rocks. Far, far away from the slaughterhouse but not far enough from the dull ache in my arm and the biting fire in my veins.