"Yeah."
"She's pregnant."
The grinding stops.
"Yeah."
I look up. Dara is watching me. The pestle in her gloved hand, paused.
"...you knew?"
"We've known for a few days. I figured someone would have told you. Or you'd have caught it. You usually—" She stops. Picks a different word. "I figured you knew."
I don't say anything.
The kick again, soft, against my palm.
I would have known. I always know.
The gray hen stopped laying for two days and I had her on supplemental grain before the sun had set. The spotted goat went off her right hind for half a morning and I caught the limp before she limped. Nugget went off her grain for one feeding once and I sat with her for an hour because something was wrong.
I always know.
"Mel. You good?"
She's looking at me, eyes steady.
"Yeah."
She gives me a small nod. Goes back to the paste.
I move my hand back to the udder. The goat doesn't notice. Or she does and she's too polite to comment.
"How far along is she?"
"Hard to tell." Dara's pestle picks up again. "Few weeksout, maybe. The spotted one's further along—she'll probably go first. Brown one a little after."
"Three babies."
"Yup." Dara doesn't look up.
I keep milking. The goat leans into me, settled, patient, the warm weight of her against my shoulder, and my hand stays on her side longer than it needs to.
Voices at the north edge.
Not loud.
I set the bucket aside.
"Dara."
"I see them."
"Keep working."
I stand. Halfway there, Nugget is at my ankle. I don't know when she joined. I don't ask. She has opinions about being included.
Petra is at the front of the gathering.
