Too cold today to start up the skid steer, I strap her to the orange sled in the barnyard and make my way by foot through six-inches of new snow, across the lower yard of the farmhouse, along the old horse track that borders the Field of Dreams, to the entrance of the Kid Pasture, where I trace the faint outline of a path leading across the acreage to an opening in the permanent fence beyond, through which we will pass before descending down to the edge of the beaver pond, and finally out onto the ice. The snow falls almost in slow motion – waltzing white moths – and the silence it harbors between breaths allows me to begin to navigate the transitional zone between this world and the next. Scripture is short on specifics, but if I had to venture a guess, I’d say it takes the spirit a day or two–sometimes longer–to wrestle itself free of its matter, gathering some additional courage and provisions in the process, perhaps absorb a final scenic detail or two for good measure, before separating from this herd and striking out independently in search of the next one, wherever that may be – following in the wake of those who came before – Woodsy, Fern, Becky, Solaris. I take a moment and I think of them. Populate the spheres with their impeccable roaming. As we commence trudging again along the pond-edge, her legs plowing a distinct swath alongside the sled-path, dragging down hollowed stems and stalks still standing from last season, I think of all the seasons she picked her way through on our farm – over 40 consecutive seasons in this place– and I see flashes of lush spring buds and mid-summer flowers, hear the buzz of insects in June, absorb on bare skin the mellow incantatory drift of a golden hour breeze strumming through a late September field-edge, and revisit the fragrant ruminations and extravagant loafing that a goat in her prime can make look so immensely pleasurable. I don’t feel strongly that a prayer is necessary to mark the occasion; but when we find our final resting spot clear across the other end of the pond, beyond the two beaver lodges built with such grandiosity this year, and as I gently shift her body off of the sled in a little grove of black birch and weeviled pine, I find myself offering some encouragement of the spirit as it begins its new ascent; and also some simple gratitude for the time we’ve shared here together, and for the body who housed her spirit so well, now left behind for the birds and passing critters. I admire goats for their recklessness, I always have. They face life and death like they do a newly fruiting black raspberry bush on a July afternoon. You wouldn’t think they’d even notice the thorns the way they strip the leaf and bark in a single motion, teeth deep in the pulp of the thing, the juice from the berries staining their beards, their fur sprinkled with pollen and tangled with sap from the flowering green staggering surround. So voracious and thorough and joyful their browsing. So all-absorbing and sure of their presence, always folding in the context in the act of becoming, every new moment, a goat. This very, very goat. Poplar. I think of time and how she must have perceived it; nothing linear or circular the way we might, but more like an attribute to investigate, a courtesy of minerals to select from, like something to strip away, unpeel, access, absorb to the very depth. Something to hold in your center and surround with tastebuds, and regurgitate–again and again–in and out of your flavored core. I for one stand in awe of it. There is a certain dignity that pulses through me – a gift – when I stand in its presence and I am awakened to it. Today, I make space for it. Today, please make space for me.

— Lucas Farrell, from THE NEW FARMER'S ALMANAC, VOL 7, 2026