Is it because I lingered in stables as a child?

In those now-vanished mountain farms, three or four cows spent the winter in silence. Bits of dry grass protruded from between the ceiling planks of the hay barn. Dust clung to spider webs beneath the beams. Time seemed to pass more slowly in those pitch-black chambers one entered quietly in order to hear the breathing bodies. Occasionally, one of the lumbering creatures rose to her feet. Another settled down. Slowly. Twice a day, to the rhythm of milking time, they resumed their mute dialogue with the farmwoman who sat on a stool pressed to their bellies, and with her bare hands, pulled their teats to spray jets of milk at the...

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