Being close to the earth wasn't necessarily what she'd wanted.

The Farmer's Wife

Susan yanked on the cow's udder, screaming her furstration into its coarse, brown flank. Milk streamed into the bucket, dripped from her fingers. The beast didn't even flinch, long ago used to these early-morning hysterics, when this slow, hardscrabble world pressed in, when David's aging hands more and more were forced to leave the chores to his still-young wife.

Hoarse and spent, Susan finally stripped the last of the milk and turned the cow out into the yard. The bucket sloshed heavy in her hands; above her the dark sky white-spattered with an eternity of unreachable stars.