Goats and Roses

Today our oldest goat got out and ate the roses. Pink petals are scattered on the ground. She destroyed the blossoms and didn't even bother to gobble up the tasty morsels that fell. 

I think it was spite. She's still mad about the two noisy newbies, and she's still missing our chickens. She busted out of a big cattle gate that a visitor had last closed. I'm not sure if an improper closure caused the trouble or if it was just coincidence. 

We came home to find her nonchalantly nibbling near the barn, as if her unrestrainedness was the norm, as if she went no where near the house where the roses are... or rather were. And she acted as if it was nothing to have a truck rumble past her with only a few feet to spare. And then she quietly resisted being put back in her pasture.

My husband is down below the barn repairing the gate now, making thin, hollow percussive sounds. The nearby rasping croaks of the tree frogs and the distant boom of bull frogs are the undertones to a symphony of singing songbirds as dusk falls. The crickets and insects round out the orchestra, trilling like piccolos and thrumming like violins.  I sit with rapt attention, wrapped in the shadows and sounds, soaking in the peaceful cacophony that resonates with  my life.