It was a cool spring morning. The smell of fresh warm milk drifted up from the pail with each squeeze of my hand. My head rested against the warm belly of the goat while I listened to her munch on grain. Below the make-shift milk shed, fog drifted around the house. I was the only one up to enjoy the miracle of a new day being born.
As I made my way down the rocky slope with the pail of milk, the rooster crowed. Yesterday was the funeral. Today was the promise. Life goes on.