The calendar reads Lambing Season Eve—Sunday the fifth-to-last day of March—and I am in bed early in an attempt to stockpile sleep before the floodgates open. I am slow to leave the house the next morning, and Sun’s been up an hour or more before I walk up the hill to begin chores. North Wind has arrived, carrying the coldest air in weeks.
So sorry to hear about Billie. Never easy.
Congrats on the farm! (Still playing catch-up and promising myself to read these in the order they were written)