EARLY MORNINGS It was country so flat you could roll a marble from Middlebury to Millersburg they said. Sometimes I woke in the dark hearing Dad holler through cupped hands at the cows like two or three honks on a horn, cows' creamy voices answering back. I was 17 and couldn't stay asleep and couldn't get out of bed. I kissed my fingers, remembering her father's couch, our dense tumbling. My Dad and the cows did their singing, a gift for the sun's risings, and I was lazy, lazy and full of passion.