As the dew burns off the pasture in the morning sunshine, we, goats, are out and contemplating the plans for the day in a goat round table (or round paddock) discussion about where the best grasses are today.
Rosco P. Coltrane (the buck for the year) is contemplating the shiny thing in the farmer's hand that shines a bright light in his eyes and makes a "click" sound.
I spend my morning minutes meditating over my dish of grain. Perhaps I will eat all the sunflower seeds first, then the oats, then the alfalfa pellets. Or maybe the other way around. Ohm...
Figaro is looking very ethereal this morning in the fog. Perhaps he is but a mirage of a mythical being transported here to spend his eternity on Earth. Perhaps he is the ghost-of-all-goats-past and here to remind us of our momentary lifespans. Or perhaps I have been meditating too long and he's just an Angora goat with curly hair. Ohm.
