Dust swirls around her
in the streams of sun
that shoot through gaps
in the wailing wall of peeling paint.
Who can worry about the stock market
when there are cows to milk?
said the fly
who buzzed on cakes of dirt and manure
that clung to the mottles of
She chomps dried orchard grass
as pumping machines are suctioned to
warm, squeamish teats.
Drumbeats of sucking sounds
resonate through the dust,
an African rhythm group in the hills of Vermont.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.