In icy fields.
Is water flowing in the tank?
(Is it the year of the sheep or the goat?
Chinese zodiac inconclusive . . . )
Will they huddle together, warm bodies pressing?
O lead them to a secluded corner,
little ones toward bulkier mothers.
Lead them to the brush, which cuts the wind.
Another frigid night swooping down—
Aren’t you worried about them, I ask my friend,
who lives by herself on the ranch of goats,
far from here near the town of Ozona.
She shrugs, “Not really,
they know what to do. They’re goats.”
