May 3rd

May 3rd

Alders ring the pasture, 
unfurl trembling new-green leaves above 
pink salmon berry flowers.

I stand with my arms folded on the half door of the stall.
At my back, stored hay that smells like last summer’s heat remembered. 

The sheep arrange themselves at the mangers. 
Everyone shoving except for the old ram 
whose stiff knees counsel patience.
One ewe scrambles up to stand in the manger.
The others eat calmly from underneath her grass fat belly. 

Fluttering in front of a mess of twigs 
and mud and spit glued to the top of a post,
two barn swallows bicker
over who will get the best nest above the hay loft 
and who will have to settle for second best in the feed room.

My oldest ewe leaves off eating and shambles toward me, 
head thrust forward,
asking for a scratch on the chin 
and the chance to nibble on my gloved hand.

The swallows flicker in and out of the stall door. 
Warm buff bellies and blue-black heads, 
tails fletched like arrows. 
darts that throw themselves through the air,
they circle the pasture
above the robins that hop awkwardly,
searching for grubs in the new grass.

The sheep settle into the business of eating
their figure-8 chewing
a soft, round motion that grinds 
the hay against their molars.