Goat Spring
Back on the back steps
foraging with the goat through the
spring afternoon,
chores done,
eager to taste the tender new greens,
darker in shadow, brighter in light,
fluttering on the soft breeze, unseen mover.
The goat gambols by.
From the tree she has been stripping
juts a branch whose leaves look to me
as green and tender, new and full of promise,
as any of the others which create the tree's yellow-green aura.
This branch is also the lowest,
the most easily accessible.
She does not feed on this branch, however,
choosing instead ones higher, further above her head,
bearing leaves which force her to stretch to her limits,
to stand as erect as a goat might possibly hope.
Perhaps the leaves on the lower branch are defective,
some defect invisible to my non-goat eye;
or perhaps the leaves on the higher branches
are for some reason more tender, more succulent,
more something I can never know
simply because I do not know what a goat knows;
or perhaps it is that
a gray goat's sense of dignity is
more highly developed than we imagine.
For whatever reason, she finds most satisfying,
munches with far more glee,
those leaves hardest to grasp.
She stands now, on a pile of rocks,
leaning for support against the fence,
neck stretched upward,
lips quivering, gathering in the last leaves
from the highest branch she can reach,
while above her head, and below,
flutters a treeful of spring leaves.
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