The weekend storms blew off a barn door, soaked the pastures and garden to a rich squelchy mud, and brought thirty babies into the world. We expect more births in bad weather; our neighbors the Moores always had more calves on stormy nights. These are our yearlings’ babies, and their mothers are a little surprised at their accomplishments. They look around for Ryan’s support, and will follow him about the loafing barn anxiously, abandoning their newborn in a corner. They resist hand-milking, and kick up a petulant fuss in the milking parlor. Next year, they will be placid know-it-alls.
Only the llamas will browse the soggy pasture
Bring your farm boots!
She knows I’m not Ryan, who hand-reared her last spring
The babies have plenty of warm straw and luxury housing