Moira turns towards the opening in the pen.
She and the halfcalf have been competing for the feed bucket I used to bring them in. It flares out at the top: the little lad insists on inserting his head at the same time as hers. This urge represents nothing less than his new will for life; but the result is ridiculous as two bodies, one large, one small share a dirty red bucket for a head.
She takes a half step towards me, turns and walks steadily down the race to the handling crate where I close the gate behind her.
She stands easily and the litre jar is filled quicky
and then a second.
Yesterday, my friends did this: shared the chore and the pleasure: the obligation to maintain the small perverse life of the calf,
now larger by a name: George.
The sun that shone on them has disappeared and the day has closed in with damp and close cloud. The swallow and martens, returned yeterday, are nowhere to be seen and the mallard duck has abandoned her nest to content herself with one solitary duckling.
Even the Nog is muted-
we’ll walk some hills at the weekend,
and work the week.