A dusky April sky effects a rippling chorus
of baas and cries, giggles, croaks and snores,
maas and sighs.
It's as if there is a ringleader hell bent on a Mexican bleat,
or indeed a cheerleader who wants to keep them all keen.
It's fine to see them mingling in the dark, slowing to a stop
until each rambling singleton is consumed by the flock.
A resounding naa silences, the starlings cease their clacketing
and even I stand fast, nearly polite.
Seconds later a rebellious gurgle restarts the racket in
the next field, throaty chatter peals into the night.
The response of stuttering lambs contrasts with the experience
and confidence of ewes and rams, who may well be furious
with their charges.
It sounds like the newborns understand anyway, regardless.
