we constructed for lassa his own pen, now separate from the pregnant ewes,now no longer able to ram the others away from sweet fermented grain.
he spent his first few hours pacing, tossing his horns about in a nervous fashion,
as you may twirl a pen cap in between your fingers, as you twist the paper napkin.
what does the animal need?
a tier in the hierarchy of shared space,
or isolated ownership of his own?
certainly not the wind or the blue tarp,
both which hung within the upper barn,
knocking and shoving at the calm.
we respect him and his hooves. we kneeled
to hammer in (i, crookedly, of course)
our gratitude and the nails of corrugated tin.
we spread hay, observed, watched not over,
but through, on eye level, the gates.
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