The peepers of Brattleboro. The peepers of Townshend. The coolness vociferates. My mom drove over from Maine. Louisa slipped and reinjured her hip on the unpowerwashed deck. The stars shone bright and stiff. The stream beside the house steadying. In the barnyard, I find Billie. She lost her kid overnight on Tuesday. The girls' shoulders hung up during delivery. Umbilical cord compressed against the pelvic brim. She kept pushing long after I assisted the following morning. Kept pushing into Wednesday and Thursday. Whenever she saw me, it was to fight me off — biomyacin shots, syringed meloxicam to help with the swelling, thiamine when she went off feed and refused to get up. Tonight she flinches and turns away. We listen a little longer to the peepers. I hear them differently since my dad has passed. I scratch Billie's neck. Make a point to linger here. It's not easy making it through, I want to say. This life. She has rejoined the herd now in the upper lean-to. Mouth full of cud. I scratch her neck, her chin. She allows herself to turn toward me. Presses her head now against my arm. I scratch her cheek. All of this is a goddamned gift.
scribed by
Lucas Farrell