The first

Last night I read a few chapters in James Herriot's All Things Bright and Beautiful. Today, I could have easily been in one of those chapters. I feel like a true Yorkshire dalesman now - out there with the sheep, wind blowing the icy rain in slants against my face. The misty hills that can sometimes be made out through the sleet could almost even be mistaken for the heather-covered hills Herriot so often describes.

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They lie disoriented in the hay as you approach. Their tiny curls of wool are matted and coated in a thick layer of mucus. From their bellies hang thick red ropes that dangle below them.

One is lying down. Panting, confused.

The other is already sorting things out, he takes a few wobbly steps towards the pile of hay and stands there shaking.

I approach and scoop him up, his slimy warm body pressed against my chest. I can feel his heart pounding viciously and his body trembles. 

The mother is weakened by the birth, a mass of entrails drags behind her as she hobbles over to lick her baby's head. She pauses, gathering strength, and follows me as I back slowly into a pen, holding her baby carefully in front of me to lure her in. She stumbles in willingly, limping over until she collapses next to her babies. Then again more licking. A few bleats.