A herd of small cattle

A bundle of tiny cows comes out every morning before dawn. They puddle around in the dark, I see the flash of their flanks, udders, as they turn. The dry sound of their hooves, like cork. Smell the vivid sweet smell of them. After a while, as it lightens, their speckled flanks jump into focus, down to the freckle. All this happens in my bedroom. Outside is no meadow with sweet grass, just city grime. My city is not a grand one. It is a mean one, though it has its grandnesses, its own speckled flanks and profligate sky. My cows are tiny and not quite real. They are shiny and neat, like cows in manuscripts. They smell like vellum. It is my job to milk them, which I do, in the metallic morning, the hot jet of their milk searing like lemon juice past my clunky, game fingers, into the metallic pail.