Every time I dig a hole, it seems, the rains come and fill it with heaven’s tears.

When you live in The Granite State you don’t take digging holes lightly. Wooden fence posts, only when necessary. Most of the time we just pound in one of those steel posts and they seem to have a way of finding the nearest buried rock on at least the first and second attempts.

But when a loved one is lost, one just does what one has to do. Removing the turf, preferably in one piece, is the first step. Cold winter nights will be coming soon. All that I can offer to my departed friend is a small blanket of grass. It’s the least that I can do.

Grass, how she loved the grass. It’s been a month or so since we opened up that new section of goat pasture. It didn’t take long before she and the rest of her herd discovered the vast buffet of delights. There were five of them: three from the previous generation and one daughter each from two of the older does. The kids were just like their moms: one tough and independent, one sweet and affectionate.

And why is it, only the good die young? She was the last to be born and the first to be fallen in love with. Smaller than any of the others, a high-pitched “maa maa” when she spoke. And she looked just like Bambi. I know, it’s a boy’s name, and a deer’s name at that, but that was my nickname for her.

It’s a sad day here on the farm, and the afternoon’s forecast is for rain. The heavens weep as nature calls back her little goatie friend.