I come in hungry
from the barn.
Wash my hands.
The eggs in their basket
are the colors of sky,
bare branches,
and snow.

The window faces east.
Morning comes easier
than I've ever known it
before. (Morning comes,
even, with joy.)

The calves' slick-sticky noses
crowd against me,
instinct directing them
to the wrong places:
They nuzzle my armpits,
my crotch. They suckle
each others' ears.
The ends of my arms
seem only to confuse them.

(They are easily confused.)

These days,
everything smells a little
like cow. I wash my hands
a lot.

(I'm happy.)