I got only a few points on my Firemaker’s patch — it caught eventually. I did leap out of the cart and run alongside, shoving uphill, to keep it from sliding down into thickets and a frozen stream; is there a gold star for that? Chill, fallen snow, a white sky on Monday, quiet; quiet broken by the aggrieved cries of geese and sheep. Lambs! Four baby lambs, looking just as you expect them to look, like illustrations in an old-fashioned children’s book.
And they boinged. Sproinged? Is there a technical term for that all-feet-up bouncing they do?
As the littlest lamb, a ram lamb four days old, nursed, his dangling tail swished and danced ecstatically. His legs were still a little too long for him.
T went before me to the barn, and I watched from the upper window as he walked, limping a little, in his sweatshirt and battered tweed hat, through the snowy yard to the barn. His Jack Russell ran out beside him; the light was even and gray.