The girl's far treble, muted to the heat,calls like a fainting bird across the fieldsto where her flock lies panting for her voice,their black horns buried deep in marigolds.
They climb awake, like drowsy butterflies,and press their red flanks through the tall branched grass,and as they go their wandering tongues embracethe vacant summer mirrored in their eyes.
Led to the limestone shadows of a barnthey snuff their past embalmed in the hay,while her cool hand, cupped to the udder's fount,distils the brimming harvest of their day.
Look what a cloudy cream the earth gives out,fat juice of buttercups and meadow-rye;the girl dreams milk within her body's fieldand hears, far off, her muted children cry.
