The baby goats arrive, two, then two more, then one, and on and on and on. The strong twins get frostbite on their ears. We knew better than to breed this early, birthing in December in snow. But the bucks got ahead of us and started this cycle before we could pen them. Now we have 20 babies running around, their mamas calling them as they slip in and out of the corral, jumping off the big rocks. Their legs are brand new. The sun warms them, sends them racing around together like a school of fish, turning and halting in unison. I resist taking notice of them individually, they will be gone in the fall. Some of the old girls will be gone in the fall. Our living depends on their dying. Right now they jump and play and kick their feet together, little creatures of pure joy. The baby laughs at them.