Everyday Romance

Feeding the goats is romantic
in that idyllic way
only for a moment

the morning of the first snow of the new year
where my black snow boots sweep a wavy path
through silent powder of unstepped snow
and the clean cold meets my eyes in bright air
and three cardinals perch red like spots of bright blood
dropped on the monochromatic palette of slate winter grey

and my arms, taut with the weight of water
held in the five-gallon buckets I hold in each hand,
begin burning against the cold
as I make my path through the snow
exhaling against the burning
and breathing in the clean air
squinting cold sunlight from my watering eyes

as the goats greet me with their bleats
and bleeping, and I break the ice in their watering pans
and I fill their feeders with molasses-rolled grains
and I break the ice in the chickens' pans
and pour fresh water until it splashes the snow
and dissolves it like a sugar wafer,
and I find a clutch of eggs in an empty coop
and I feel a clutch of eggs under a warm hen, who let's me pet her,
and I steal a clutch of eggs from the corner
and I gather them all into a basket and grab the empty buckets
and retrace my new path through the snow
to the wheelbarrow waiting by the hay
that I heave into the barrow and wheel
back over the snow, down the slope, back to the goat house I go
to heave the heavy hay into the bins
and have a conversation with the goats
and admire the weight of powder on cedars
and notice that it's actually not that cold anymore

as I retrace my path through the snow
and walk to my car and clean it of snow
and drive to the store
and load up my cart
with carrots and onions, cilantro and limes,
fruit and yoghurt and juice,
and wheel myself home, replenish my fridge, conjure a meal
and feed my dear daughter
who woke up this morning
of the first snow of the new year
with her tonsils red and her throat sore.

Feeding the kids, both human and goat, is romantic
in that idyllic way
only for a moment.

--Diana Tigerlily