I am making beds when Ian phones to say he is bringing my order of cattle feed from Inverness.
Up to the yard, fire up the old JCB, and wait at the gate for the flatbed to arrive,
I check oils, gear and engine- while I wait.
Fortunately Ian arrives before I can ingrain enough engine oil into my hands to threaten the laundered sheets that I have to sretch on the beds.
It is a day of sunshine. The weather sets no constraints.
Anything is possible.
Moira comes up to the yard: her little man stays down.
He is spavined
but more independant by the day.
I watch him among the trees, nibbling at the newly greening while I strip her of milk
she moves her feet to give me access:
it must be a relief.
When I finish her, I take a water bowser down for the guests and then back up again to feed the little girls and force a reluctant litre of Moira’s creamy milk into her delinquent son.
Where the other calves are racing around: he plods like a little old man, eating grass and concentrate, like an adult: not his mother’s wonderful milk.
And today he was lying out in the grass, like a little old man –
enjoying the sun,
chewing a contented cud.
Maybe adulthood has something to offer –
even at one month old.