This morning, the twin nanny goats are on top
of the old Volvo wagon, craning their necks,
chomping on succulent madrone leaves,
chewing sideways, wispy beards fluttering.
The car’s dimpled hood and roof
resemble the hail-pocked bare fields
around the paddock. The llamas keep watch
while the half dozen chickens,
beaks to the dirt, do their own work,
squawking and flapping when goats or llamas
come near. Coyotes roam the woods beyond,
hoping the llamas will go away and the chickens
will be dinner.

The nannies, off to their daily grind, scramble
into the back of the Volvo and are carted off
to some neighbor’s patch of scotch broom
and blackberries. They’ll spend the day
in goat heaven, not caring that their wool isn’t
the fine skin-smoothing lanolin of their sheep
cousins or that their springy gait has nothing
of the graceful dance of their antelope
cousins.

After a good goat-day’s work, they give
their person a straight-line-pupils look
and a bleat-duet. She knows it’s a kind
of thank-you from these funny hodgepodge
creatures: wattles, stumpy horns, awkward
frolics, baas and blaats.

Home again, they greet the llamas, tease
the chickens, climb the car mountain, munch
strips of madrone bark, and have a serious
look-around at their goatly Shangri-La.