Forty-eight frigid hours in a row
lambs fall bloody into wet fog
and snow, twins, triplets, fast one
on another—a hundred ewes bleating,
mounds of afterbirth, earth churned
to mud, dogs nervous and circling—
coyotes are out there, silent, waiting—
and how quick we must be to sort out
the dead, skin them to cover with sad
bloody shirts the rejects whose mothers
nosed them away—we shove the imposters
towards grieving ewes, crooning, here, here,
here's your sweet one—our jeans frozen
dark and wet to our thighs and our hands
red ice and the tired sheep tonguing
wet lumps of wool till they wobble
and stand to nurse.