AT THE GOAT FARM
It’s mud time in March and I am on my way
To pick up milk at the Jesta Farm
Where mother goats are kidding every day.
There’s mud on the farmyard driveway
Covered with hay. The chickens prance
To meet me, clucking their querulous queries.
I warn them not to take a chance
On foraging under my car wheels.
Pungent odors assail my nose
As I slide open the door to the warm barn
And hear the bleats of nanny goats
Who fear their kids have come to harm.
I take my milk and head for home
Where ice no longer coats our pond.
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