They roamed the land when it was dry, they ate everything green and everything not.
The youngest was the smallest but all three were born with the sun. Beetle eyes hidden, black as old blood.
Pale rock faces; angry with the world, angry with the land, angry with each other and angry with me.
I saw them graze on dirt and I walked an inch above the ground and I never made a sound.
Always hungry, their nostrils filled with dust, they saw me and yet did not.
So I carried on and found a tree, with tiny fruit.
I picked just one, but it filled my mouth with so much juice, I had to swallow three times.
Why don't the goats come here to drink? I think.
Then I see the farmer, coming as though he were shot from a gun. He gripped that tree and yanked it out! Out and away from me.
He didn't say a word. He didn't want me there. So I left with my questions and my regrets.
I found myself wanting, just a bit, to be back with those goats.
I wanted to know where they had been before.
Suddenly I wanted it more. I wanted it more than fruit.
I picked just one, but it filled my mouth with so much juice, I had to swallow three times.
Why don't the goats come here to drink? I think.
Then I see the farmer, coming as though he were shot from a gun. He gripped that tree and yanked it out! Out and away from me.
He didn't say a word. He didn't want me there. So I left with my questions and my regrets.
I found myself wanting, just a bit, to be back with those goats.
I wanted to know where they had been before.
Suddenly I wanted it more. I wanted it more than fruit.
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