Lull in the Storm
In the back yard,
after the late season storm,
islands of water dot the mud,
creating small, irregular reflecting pools
which shiver in the wind
and ripple with the drops blown from the trees.
The goat does not see these pools,
standing alone in her shed,
on one side bound by a damp, dark room
that leaked water into her food dish during the storm,
and by her pen on the other,
a mire of mud and feces bound inside a fence.
The rhythm of her crying ceases and
she sounds one last plaintive sigh
as I step outside the door; she extends
her neck, twisting her narrow head till one ear
hangs straight down, eyeing me as I choose
a dry spot on the steps.
My presence quiets her; she stands silently,
and I study the shapes reflected in the pools
until I notice that she is chewing her cud
--ruminating--
cheeks bulging, jaw moving down and around
with a steady rhythm.
The wind comes up
and the goat checks to be sure that I am here.
Her bolus slides down
her throat like a tennis ball
as she stretches her neck to focus me in.
The tennis ball slides back up,
her cheeks bulge, and the old rhythm starts again,
filling me with that strange comfort that comes from knowing
that it takes so little to make a goat feel secure.
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