Father always hummed at the milking

Pausing only to say ‘easy girl, easy there’

When a troublesome horse-fly struck

Sitting on his three-legged stool

His pail clamped between his thighs,

He caressed old Daisy’s belly with his head

And sometimes sank his fist into the wrist

When she lashed out

The sound of milk hitting the pail

Was like rain dancing on corrugated steel

He could hit one of those flies

At three paces with one long squirt.

Sometimes he practiced on me.

4 thoughts on “MILKING TIME

  1. My mom and dad were friends with a farmer who grew crops and chickens and pigs and had a few head of cattle. It’s a very distant childhood memory. They had kids but I wasn’t very close in age or sentiment. On the farm, I got a thorn stuck right on top of my head running past bushes, my sister lost a shoe in the mud, and I recall the cows and pigs. The cows were huge, looming over me, but they were gentle. The pigs were careless and had tempers. This brought back some good memories for me. I even remember the smells of the farm, some of them quite pleasant. And when they baked pies, mom and her friend made the whole house smell good. Thanks for dredging those up.

    Liked by 1 person

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