If you’ve been reading here a while you know how much I love goats. I’ve been working at my friend’s farm for years off and on, and weekly for the last year or so.
A poet friend sent me this (from the New Yorker), which describes perfectly why I love my goat friends. Enjoy.
The little goats like my mouth and fingers,
and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on the fence board
a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field,
pushes her mouth forward to my mouth,
so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her teeth, and the bristle-whiskers,
and then she kisses me, though I know it doesn’t mean “kiss,”
then leans her head way back, arcing her spine, goat yoga,
all pleasure and greeting and then good-natured indifference: she loves me,
she likes me a lot, she takes interest in me, she doesn’t know me at all
or need to, having thus acknowledged me. Though I am all happiness,
since I have been welcomed by the field’s small envoy, and the splayed hoof,
fragrant with soil, has rested on the fence board beside my hand.
|April 4, 2015, Holy Saturday (between Good Friday and Easter).
Mary Magdalene was born right into my lap. Lemongrass was a great first-time mama.