We awoke to wind-driven snow, four-inches on the ground and mounting, the cows on the wrong side of their sagging fence. I’d been pushing them to clean up the unsavory remnants of a round bale, and their displeasure was evident. It was not yet daylight, though the accumulated snow lent its particular luminescence. I lay flakes of hay to kneel on for milking, a little prayer mat on which to repent my sins one squirt at a time. Locked my sister in the closet. Squirt. Snitched one of my father’s Lucky Strikes. Squirt. Snitched another. Squirt. I’d keep going, but they only get worse, and I doubt you really want to know, anyway.
I’m always glad for chores on mornings like these, when I might otherwise not find my way outdoors. There is always a little detail I find striking; this morning it was Pip’s soft and intermittent lowing, uncharacteristic for her, maybe the result of the weather or some other grievance, though I didn’t try to imagine what she was saying or why. I just milked atop my hay mat, watching the wet flakes melt into the heat of Pip’s coat, until the bucket was full and my hands ached with the cold.
I released Pip from her halter and hung it over the fence post. She ambled back to her mates and I to mine.
The late, great Rory Gallagher with A Million Miles Away. Hell, yeah.
7 thoughts on “And I to Mine”
Nice way to start a Sunday morning. Thanks Ben, for the poetry and Rory’s song. Million miles away…..
“I lay flakes of hay to kneel on for milking, a little prayer mat on which to repent my sins…”
Nice. Careful though, so nice it’s almost poetic.
Yeah, you gotta be real careful… that shit sneaks right up on ya.
Enjoyed this one.
Thanks, hope you guys are doing great down there.
Snow? Keep it. If winter didn’t come til March or April, I’d be OK with that. Too much to do beforehand…