As I milked I watched the sheep come down from the upper grazing field. All in a line. I imagined them carrying their jackets on one arm and an empty lunch pail on the other. "Tough day?" "Nah, same as usual." "Wanna meet me down at the waterin' hole?" "Sure."
They met in front of the barn and then re-formed their line to head to the pond and stream for the evening drink and switch to the western paddock.
Boaz (our Jacob ram) had decided he is a ram again. Most parts of the year he likes to pretend he is part of the cattle herd.
He walked over to Ophelia and gave her a gentle nip on the butt. She looked at him in scorn and disdainfully walked away. Unperterbed, he walked away and cavalierly approached Tarkheena. Who joined the other sheep as they meandered, in their orderly line, down to the field by the pond. Poor Boaz. I bet he and the ewes will work out their courtship season, all in good time.
The evening is still.
The willow trees are quiet, pensive, but an imperceptible breeze causes the leaves on the cherry tree to tremble. Like a very old woman, with thinning hair and an unsteady hand, she loses her leaves. One by one. Seems like yesterday she was still covered in leaf. She is clothed in dignity, unashamed of this stage of her life. But trembly nonetheless.
Now the sun is down, chickens go to roost and I am going to enforce and extra early bedtime for young ladies and gentlemen. The moon will rise, she is almost full. And before you know it, the alarm will sound and we will all rise again for another day. When sheep will put on their jackets, grab their lunch pails, and head up to the upper fields for another day of hard labor, turning grass into meat, wool and baby lambs.