Written in Moss

     She’s left me dairy again.       And after I did the dishes and tidied the pantry so neatly. Some gratitude.      The first week was whole milk from a pint-sized jug. Tonight, it’s cream. A full, saucer of it poured thick over hand-painted violets ringed with gold leaf from one small plastic tub in the fridge door bought specially for me.       Is it so farfetched to imagine enchanted creatures could prefer plant-based?       I’ve chatted to the heifers while they carefully skirt cowslips to grind their way through sweet clover and thin blades of juicy grass. Listened to mouthfuls of their mumbled complaints. When it gets cold, I wriggle my way under a wing in the chicken coop. They have plenty to cluck about what goes on.        I decided long ago I didn’t want to be a part of that. But the lore persists.               ...