Morning. With the calls of the logger head shrike from the pinyons and cedars, the rooster in the distance, and the buttery sun hardly petting through my dusty windows. I remember to shake my muckboots out before putting them on, though the only crawling thing I’ve seen in this desert so far was a little chuckwalla that crept into a crevice as I slowly approached it yesterday evening. Went out to smoke a butt sitting on a rusty tire not unlike my toilet except this time with my sweats on, reading Edward Abbey before stepping back into the trailer to eat a dried pear. Hair is matted, nostrils brittle with dry snot, the wind whips and the dogs bark. After breakfast I hull black walnuts, smashing them in a sandstone basin with another rock, picking out the meat with my knife. They were brought here to the dairy from Vermont or New Jersey and I think of the North East while sipping switchel. For lunch we ate a ham that had been roasted with carrots, potatoes, and sprigs of juniper. Someone made a loaf of bread with sour milk and old oatmeal and it reminded me of my mother. Paul took us to a ridge above the farm and I kicked at sand and screamed at the sawtooth mountains. The road was bumpy and I steadied myself by holding on to the window frame of the truck as we drove back to the dairy. I washed hardened blood and milk from a fridge in the cheese room and the bleach in the water burned the cuts on my hands.