Traffic passes the farm with a slushy whisper: the birches hang their snowlumbered branches like tired cheerleaders resting pompons. A small squadron led by Angus Halghorn, envious of the privileged status of George Halfcalf & Moira, Morag and her boy baby, have forced the gate giving to the shed: its shelter and feed store. I must lure them into the yard with extra feed before I can resume my morning chores.
Snow has changed the days calculus: to refine choices. There will be no leaving the farm today, paths need cleared: no building work- structures need swept.
How are the animals handling the hardship? How warm is the house to return to? How cold the supply pipes?
Philo helps me take a bale of hay down to little Holly and Alice before the snow freezes to crust or melts to wet sugar, the quad barely hauls the bogie up the hill on return- timely done as the day darkens.
Old Flora waits at the gate to the shed, her calf hovering attendance. She took no part in this morning’s raiding party. I check the available interior space –
‘All right old thing – join the pensioners’ party.’
She sashays through-
they are long acquainted these three-