We met these sweet creatures on a farm, off a country road, a little west of Pescadero, California on January 25, 2009. Click here to see Mark's poem in the current New Yorker.
The little goats like my mouth and fingers,
and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on
the fence board
a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field,
pushes her mouth forward to my mouth,
so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her teeth, and
and then she kisses me, though I know it doesn’t mean “kiss,”
then leans her head way back, arcing her spine, goat yoga,
all pleasure and greeting and then good-natured indifference:
she loves me,
she likes me a lot, she takes interest in me, she doesn’t know me
or need to, having thus acknowledged me. Though I am all happiness,
since I have been welcomed by the field’s small envoy, and
the splayed hoof,
fragrant with soil, has rested on the fence board beside my hand.