March comes in like a lion
and goes out like a lamb.
This year it came in like a lion all right, but it went out
more like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. On which note…
I was walking down the hill today, watching the sheep being
rolled around the field by a force 9 gale like those bundles of grassy stuff
you see rolling around the prairie in old westerns (I am exaggerating slightly,
and it’s an odd fact that the only time I ever saw such rolling bundles of
grassy stuff was on a dusty track in northern Quebec) when I was reminded of a
horrible story from three winters ago.
We had a lot of snow that year, and one night the news programme
carried a most upsetting item. A flock of sheep somewhere in Wales had been
stranded in a field during a snow storm, and the snow had become so deep that
they’d suffocated en masse. The
emphasis was all on the farmer’s loss and the poor insurance companies
suffering a lot of claims due to the inclement weather. Nobody seemed in the
least concerned that a number of beautiful animals had gone to their deaths
most unpleasantly.
That’s the sort of thing that makes me incline towards a reclusive
attitude and implore the gods to allow me to spend my next incarnation
somewhere a long way from here.
Meanwhile, T. Rex is still grumbling aggressively as I write,
and the sheep in the field – which were actually braced against the blast and
not rolling at all – will be giving birth to their lambs soon. Hello April.
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