A Late Spring

The walk down to the school's farm is slippery, slushy and cold. The rain feels icy and the wind whips my hair into knots. Carefully, tentatively, I pick my way over sloping, frozen ruts.

Drawing closer to the barn, I feel warmer, the building acting as a shelter from the wind. I swear there is heat emanating from beneath the doors and swirling up around my legs.

Stepping inside away from the weather, my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness while I listen to the clucking, scratching and chewing of the animals. It smells of damp hay and something else. Maybe it's my imagination? I breathe in the odor of pungent animals and old wood. It is not altogether unpleasant.

A small gate separates me from the stalls. Feeling a dozen pair of strange eyes - penetrating stares - watch me as I fiddle with the rickety gate, I am self conscious. I glance over my shoulder, sheepishly, but no one is there to smirk at my ineptitude with latches.

Be strong. Carry on. The promise of infants draw me in.

I head to the back where tiny heads, revealing tiny horns, poke out between the boards of their stalls. Kneeling, I reach out, remembering the last time I pet a goat, I was in a city zoo with my toddler children.

One kid, covered in a silky white coat, steps away, startled at my assertiveness. I notice the tag, pierced to its ear. I talk softly. He or she, (does it matter?) filled with sudden courage, pushes at my hand and nibbles the cuff on my coat. I am in love. I finger the green, plastic tag, unable to read the writing in the dark barn.