Last weekend I checked out the Steelburners playing at the Pig’s Ear.
It was great to get out and dance to Jill Staveley, Matt Watson (and Adam DeMarsh whose drumstick you can see on the right side of the frame) and their churning rock n’ roll.
But this week I am house sitting and taking care of the beasts and homestead.
The lady sheep are getting big round bellies as they get closer to having their lambs.
The ram is doing his best job being protective and has been giving me daily warnings not to get too close.
I was bold enough to sneak my camera in over the fence to get a closeup of his lovely, intense glare.
Don’t worry, Clover, I have all respect for you and your ladies.
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I was also inspired to write a poem while I was standing out in the frost last night.
For those of you who don’t follow me on Facebook, here it is:
two nights ago I heard the wild dogs
a fractious conference
of who did what to whom
or perhaps they’d found a warren
and there was a bloody dinner
I stood in my shirtsleeves
in the moonlight
and tried to decipher their cries and chatter
tonight, though,
the frost is keen
and sparkling
on a layer of ice
it is cold
deep cold
the now full moon is silent
so silent
I’ve been reading about the plague
the great plague
I am silenced
shocked
made blood cold
by that strange and brutal history
so many people
so suddenly dead
no one knew why
the end of the world
parents left children to die alone
from the fear
cold, cold fear
I go inside
and put another log
on the fire
and settle down
to read more
of the cruelty of
that mysterious death
the cat follows me in
and curls up by the dog
by the fire
the sheep, though
haven’t burrowed into their shelter
they stand outside
bathing in blue light
never mind the cold
this is our landscape
we were built for this
you may think we are fragile
enjoy your fire