Counting sheep
It was the week of lambing, but no babies had arrived yet. I was anxious; elated; high on, yet sick of, the anticipation.
I would slip out of bed each morning, toss on my hat and slide coveralls over my pajamas. Bianca, the livestock guardian dog, would wait for me at the fence, her body still and regal. Her wagging tail betrayed her excitement.
We would sit for a moment, each morning, sharing body heat. The sky was usually gray, sometimes pink. The air was mostly cold; the budding trees o ered a glimpse of spring. The ducks and chickens clucked and quacked, trying to keep up with the song birds.
As I le Bianca munching on her breakfast, I imagined what I could
nd nestled on the short grass of the gray woods. For days, I had been scrolling through images of bright, wooly lambs. They were pictured bounding through lush elds, nursing in dusty barns, sleeping in the sun, all the while looking dainty and irresistibly charming.
The seven sheep were o en scattered throughout the brush. They always drew together as I approached. The ewes were watchful, fretful. Each morning, I scanned the hillside, peeked through the trees, walked toward the sheep just for good measure. It seemed to me that the lambs would never come.
Now, four weeks later, there are a dozen lambs in the eld. They bounce like cartoon characters while their mothers graze the growing grass. Their high bahs echo through our yard.
One bottle baby follows us anywhere we go, always ready for more milk. He nestles in my arms, snuggles against my neck, and is well worth those long weeks of waiting.
New life is emerging everywhere I look. The pond in our yard has become an amphibian nursery. Toad eggs are looped over blobs of white salamander eggs, and the water is alive with frog tadpoles.
The mountain across from our house is becoming brighter. Even from my bedroom, I can see the budding tree tips. A walk in the woods reveals ourishing mountain laurel and blossoming plants.
The returning life is something I look forward to each year. Spring is set apart from the other seasons by its exploration. There are countless animals and plants waking up, rediscovering the world. Even though I anticipate it, I too forget what each spring holds.
Somehow, words and photos can never quite capture the feeling of holding the rst lamb or realizing that the buds are growing again.
As winter melts away and spring slips into its place, I delight in the sunlight that streams through the greening trees. I pine for the rst babies of the season. I wonder at the tiny tadpoles that slip through my
ngers. For those few short weeks, I savor the life the new season delivers to my world.