Rolling out of bed, hair shoved under a cap. I begin.
Milking tote packed, stumbling over the dogs. I head out the door.
Meadowlarks singing, plodding down to the barn. The air is still and sweet.
Overtaking me, enveloping me as I near the door. The warm scents of horse and hay.
Bawling goats, rattling gates. The sacred stillness of morning is broken.
Jumping onto the stand, stomping anxiously. The first doe devours her grain.
Prepping the udder, wiping it clean. The ritual begins.
Swishing, spraying. Warm milk fills stainless steel.
Foaming milk, emptying udders. The rhythm of milking.
Pushing aside the barn cat, hollering at the dogs. They fight for the spilled droplets.
Repacking my tote, heading back to the house. Now the day can begin.
Connecting me to the past, returning me to my roots. I feel a special connection with the generations who have milked before.
This post is a part of Farm Friend Friday