After yesterday's ice storm, the runnoff got to be a torrent, and the geese and I sailed off down the James River in the wooden goose house.
But only in my fantasy.
Due to the resultant power failure, we had to settle for giving CDT shots and not trimming goat hoofs because there was not enough light in the barn to see what I was doing. We spent the afternoon bundled up in the house reading until the electricity was restored.
This morning, amazingly, there was a small newborn black calf running around happily. I don't know if it was born during or after the ice coated the trees and grass. Can you see why hope is such a tenuous thing and requires signs to keep it alive? I caught a few shooting stars during the night. Shall we call the baby Star? or Meteorite?