He's away so it is left to me,
The milking.
Some mornings I look out into the frost,
And am thankful,
That it is not I who must rise to milk the jersey.
But this cold frosty morning it is.
The gates and the feed bins are all frozen steel.
My fingers conduct the cold well.
Thankfully the water to wash the udders is warm.
As is she.
I rest my cool cheek on her warm belly.
Massage in the udder cream and do the preparatory squirts,
Before the bucket is placed beneath her.
I am in position.
Awkward, due to my lack of practice,
And commence.
I sense her discomfort.
Or does she sense my draining confidence.
Either way it does not go as well as I planned.
Once she flinches.
Have I hurt her?
Then I sense that she is holding back.
With my one meagre litre and her feed gone,
I give up.
Perhaps she prefers a masculine touch.
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