Saw something about the new American Kibbutz movement. Vegetable gardens, movie nights. Separate rooms. For each according to availability from each according to mortgage deed. Urban, no olive trees, no orange trees, maybe some chickens, but the urban ones much more sophisticated and not their country cousins. Certainly no roosters. No cattle blurred in the heat. No children’s dorms with communal care (female) so their mothers can farm. No farm. No children. Carefully non-denominational non-communistic commune. I worked with cows. Not a farm, Chehalis livestock market, auctions on Fridays. The smell of lowing and the sound of dung. Slapping a palm on a prime hindquarter. Whack. Crooked skirt swinging. Tried to walk home behind neighbor girl, lazy thing. Wearing a brown scapular, protects from burning, or rather after the first Saturday it does. Picture her second life foxeyed with a ferreteyed policeman, prime sausage, lost in the woods oh please Mr Policeman.