Evening. Milking time. Across the
street
cows murmur as they struggle
their overburdened bodies toward
the barn.
Comforting, it must be, as the
swollen, pink
fruit eases across the snow.
When he comes in, the cows
beckon to him. He sits by a heavy
flank, hot, steaming from the
walk.
The fingers of her udder are at
once
rugged and tender. He can feel
the wash
of milk beneath the skin, like
oceans
in a globe.
The cow knows him. She shifts
from one foot to another, careful
not to hurt him, careful
not to kick the bucket over. She
hears
the first seeds of her milk hit
the pail; the farmer falls
into his familiar rhythm. She
bows
her head, sighs, and he is bathed
in her steamy exhale. The wind
picks up. When the bucket is
full, he pulls at his collar
and walks back home, where the
warmth
of his fireplace envelopes him
with immediacy. Early
December light remains oddly
vivid, pomegranates ripen in the window.
