Belle had wonder-wandered away from the lea to lick what turned out to be locale’s only particularly gummous tree—with sap that satisfied a bit too satisfactorily. Now, her bovine brood will only accept saccharine food lest a less than friendly mood, so with prefs renewed [and lone source spent as chewed], road trip ensues for deciduous syrup yet clued. If the mountains were dusted rock candy, that would be dandy. If the lake tasted sweet as cake, that would be a first-rate stake. But, alas, for moolasses of maple to, henceforth, be sustenance staple as pasture’s postured new fable, only way to that sweet high is a highway sweat by herd-together’s try. ; )