Near winter’s end, your flock
Will bear their lambs, and you
Must be alert, out late
And early at the barn,
To guard against the grief
You cannot help but feel
When any young thing made
For life falters at birth
And dies.
              —The Farm (W. Berry)

Like fat-bellied ships heavily laden with riches, our 19 ewes lie uncomfortably at anchor, waiting to be offloaded. Lambing season began Wednesday morning with a fine set of twins born to one of a small group of related ewes who possess a nervous eye and a high-stepping skittishness. In a herd of cattle, such cows are dangerously overprotective and prone to charging. In a flock of sheep, such ewes, with their stomping and scattering, are merely an annoyance.

Taking turns. One of us around 10 p.m., another after midnight, again at 3, and then between the hours of 5 and 6, we walk softly amidst the flock where they lie. Out in the hay yard, among logs lined up to be cut on the sawmill, we play the light over the tranquil sea. We look for new lambs and for bulging ewes standing separate from the flock. And we watch for the ones in distress and needing a helping hand. Thankfully, we are seldom called upon to assist.

It’s 3 a.m. on Thursday. I step out onto the front porch to find the temperature unseasonably warm, with a near-full moon and clear skies. No light is needed as I enter the barnyard and move gingerly through the mass of bedded ewes. These are the times when I am giddy with the love of farming.

As I walk, I think of my old neighbor, Mr. Kyle, six years departed now, telling me two decades ago of his love for walking the hilly pastures among his dairy herd on a moonlit night. I have created my own path among the cattle and sheep. The wonderful, earthy smell rising from the resting bodies, the sounds of deep breathing that signify all is well — they strike a soul-satisfying note in the husband.

On this night, too, all is well. I spend 30 minutes with the ewes and feel reluctant to return to the house. Even back inside I toy with staying up, putting on the coffee, sitting quietly and reading. But I return to bed and sleep a couple more hours before getting back up and repeating the trip as the moon sets in the west.

Saturday morning I rise around 5, having slept through my middle-of-the-night check on our charges and not knowing whether Cindy has ventured out into the warm night. Storms are building in the distance, and change will soon be at hand.

I make coffee and dress. In the barnyard I count lambs, playing my light over the ewes. One ewe lies at the edge of the flock. I come near and she stands to allow a pair of snow-white newborns to suckle. They look strong and healthy, so I leave them to do what is natural and walk on. In the shelter of the hay barn’s overhang is another ewe. She is also lying down, and beside her is a singleton. But unlike the twins, this lamb is positioned on its side, at an unusual angle, curled, but with the head stretched out. I touch it and find its coat still warm and damp with afterbirth, its tongue distended, its head already cold in death.

I rub it vigorously, without either joy or hope. My sad expectations met, I leave the lamb on the ground next to its mother. She continues to lick its still body, as if by licking it longer she might will a better outcome. We bury the newborn later in the morning. Even as the day merges into evening, the ewe continues to call for her lost lamb, breaking even the stoniest of hearts.

A newborn’s death surrounded by so much new life is the essence of our work on the farm. We raise these animals for slaughter, for the table; we joke that sheep are born looking for ways to die. Yet there is always real grief at loss, especially that faltering misstep at birth.

………………………………………………

Addendum: This morning (Sunday), another 3 a.m. walk among the sheep. The severe storms of the day and evening before have passed, leaving behind a clear moon and starlit skies to light my steps. All is well. Another visit before sunrise finds two more sets of twins have been born, unfaltering, into this world. Now their real challenges begin.

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