Twelve frosts
Twelve frosts in a row and the new lambs are gone.
They lie in their special silence, where they had slept.
On their wool, a glistening amice signals them home.
The cold farmer stamps his feet, bangs his hands: "Jesus wept..."
Walking and counting I see the ewe, dead mid-parturition.
The blood-black birth sac like a burnt elbow bulges.
Her jaw is frozen open. This apparition
is enough, and enough: we begin our salvages.
Each skinny, knock-kneed corpse rattles into the tray,
out of reach of crow and fox and frost.
And mind. The ewe defeats me and will wait
for blunter fingers more used to loss.
In the cabin, turn key, and open throttle.
From the fenceline green parrots curl up from the wattle.
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