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MORNING MILKINGS Mother slaps every sleeping cow with a chapped, leathery hand. Once, twice, as many times as it takes. Then, with the lightest touch, she announces to the first startled flank her bucket, her brown paper towels, her iodine, her plastic syringes for the sick. She washes each udder, overripe and leaking faster into the rag with each wipe, careful of any touchy warts. One long squeeze into her palm and she’s done. The milk’s ripe and opaque in her lifeline, no flecks of red today, no odd clots. A skeptic, she pushes her greasy glasses back up her nose, closer to her nearsighted eyes, then tosses the sample, quick as spit.  ...

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