(There are
two basic kinds of girl:
those who
want to be a princess;
and those
who want to be a pioneer.)
On a frozen winter
evening
In a barn down at the
dairy
Sits a maiden on a tall
stool
Dressed in jeans and
rubber boots.
In her hand she has a
copy
Of a National Geographic
Which she reads in
stolen moments
From her labors cold and
wearing
Midst the smell of fresh
manure,
And the pulsing sound of
milkers
While the Holsteins chew their barley.
There between the yellow
covers
Is the story of far
travel:
Down a river called Zambezi
Sixteen hundred miles of
water
From Zambia to Namibia
Round the corner to Botswana
Back to Zambia , past Zimbabwe
Over vast Victoria
Rolls the river of Zambezi
Full of snorting, lumpy
hippos.
There dwell baboons,
snakes (black mambas)
Elephants, oxpeckers, catfish.
Crocodiles yawn in the
shadows.
Cormorants fly overhead.
There the people fish
the channels,
Paddle canoes full of
cargo
As they have for
generations
To the towns along the
river
Where, “To travel is to
dance.”
Soon the maiden at the
dairy
Puts away her hasty
reading,
Goes back to the heavy Holsteins ;
Washes warm and steaming
udders
While the motor of the
milkers
And the country music
station
Accompanies her wishing
To do something in her
lifetime
That few women ever do.
E. Black
