The boys would tie a long piece of rope around her neck. They called her Moo Cow. 'Come now, Moo Cow.'

She would have her small white palms against the soft grass and with every quiet breath her lashes would fall heavy against her flushed cheeks. She would crawl and her boney knees would sink into the dirt.

The older boy led the way while the younger followed behind.

This younger boy would lift her lavender dress every now and then with a dark thick stick, and watch as her thighs rubbed against one another. Her buttocks reminded him of a bee hive and he envisioned pushing that stick in all kinds of strange places. He often wondered what would come out of her; maybe honey or a brittle cry from her pink mouth; a pleading shriek to stop. The idea both worried and thrilled him.

In the afternoon, when the knoll felt full of opportunity and warmth, there never seemed to be enough time. The older boy only ever led the way. He would walk her into the shade of the pine tree and often ask the young boy what he would like to do with her.

The needles would stick to her skin and she would think about making birds nests or wigs with those strangely inviting needles. She always hoped that he would say, 'Let's make birds nests on her back.' Usually the younger boy would suggest feeding her milk.

And so, the older boy would take the carton of full cream from his back pack and tilt her head back. She would happily roll onto her back like a playful cat and await the smooth white on her lips.

The hush of distant gum tree leaves, flickering against one another, would heighten the childrens senses and create a kind of sound space. This was their sacred place, their mysterious dark space.

And the milk would fall in a thousand rushed drops from the cow's tit, to the cardboard carton, to the girls face and it would swirl in her mouth like used water in a bath tub. Eyes dilated and often suddenly distracted by the sun peeking through the arms of the pine tree, she would close her lids, swallowing the milk and saving her sight. But the young boy would often poke her with his stick and demand that she look at him. 'Look now, Moo Cow.' The white of her eyes, the sclera, like fried egg whites, like old milk. How that pleased the young boy to see. How happy he felt when he found a connection between her face and food.

He would kneel down above her knotted hair and lick her eyes clean. He would imagine the sensation of sucking those round gems right out of her head. The things he could do with those eyes, the possibilities seemed endless. The things he could fill those ditches with; all kinds of caresses and strange objects.

Often he liked the thought of seeing dominoes either side of her petite nose. Or simply, he could stick his fingers up into her forehead and put his sex in her mouth and with his fingers tight together, motion her to follow him.

The possibilities were endless but unfortunately the afternoon, the greatest hours of the day, were always stolen by dinner time and sometimes the rain.

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