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MUD, APPLES, MILK Of all things to miss, it’s silly to miss how cows drowse in mud. They blink slow as toads. Instead I should miss light on the blond corn or trails of gravel dust that rose like kites and vanished. But I don’t miss that. I miss how I could bring bruised apples, press them like smelling salts to sleepy noses. You had to let go real fast or risk a finger to the lick and snap. I miss their udders too, the mud fresh as wax on the swollen skin. Each day I broke the seals with hot rags, and milk flooded my palm— a white creek down the gulley of my wrist.  ...

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