Lambing is almost done. Sweat, tears, heartbreak, joy and new life, on the farm and for the farm.
As I write, one of the old girls is on her side in the field. Panting. The sun has gone down. It is just me, her, the bats, the bugs, and her soon to be baby lambs.
There are deer in the woods next to me. Three sets of eyes peering back at me. They pick a cautious exit through the woods.
The snipe circle overhead now. Their tale feathers make a weird wuthering sound as they swoop and soar above the field. As I walk to the barn a bat flitting from the stables swerves inches from my face. I know, too there is a fox not far. She has taken one lamb already. I can hear her yip right now as I walk back from the barn. She is in the woods above the hill field.
I set a timer. Rosebud lies down. She stands. Paws. Scents the ground for where her waters have marked it. Here is her spot. She will not wander far from the scent.
This year’s lambs are large. A new ram. A change in direction. I worry the ewes will not manage. I have had to pull several already. Beautiful big lambs with coal black yarn.
I can see a nose now. Tired though she is she will push. It will take it’s time. The head appears. I breathe a sigh of relief. She stands, finally. Rosebud pants and wheezes her way through lambing. It can be worrisome. But she has always taken her time. The lamb bleats, though not born. We are not long I think.
40 minutes later, she is tired. It is time. With huge effort, from both of us, I pull the lamb. The biggest of the season so far. With a brother or sister to follow.
I scoop up both her lambs. They are heavy. Wriggly little things thirsty for life. They call. She follows. I stow them safely in the stable. Far from foxes. A bushel of willow strung from the rafters. She will stand to feed and the lambs will teach themselves to suckle.
It’s been a long lambing. We have lost lambs to the fox, to ewes who fell ill, and to accident.
But those that we have are healthy and strong. We have enough.
