Baa, Baa, Black Sheep, Have You Any Wool?

While not exactly black-sheep, I couldn't help humming the old nursery rhyme, a favorite from my childhood, while watching this mama-woolie feed her lamb in a pasture in New Wilmington.

I'd driven by this particular flock of sheep only a week before on my way back from the city, and barely gave them a second thought, as they lazily grazed a partially snow-covered pasture.

I assumed their seemingly expanded girth, a result of the heavy wool that tightly blanketed each sheep.

Still a barnyard-newbie, I was giddy to discover the very sheep I'd virtually ignored the week before, had in the course of seven days, birthed an entire pasture of lambs.

With their closely cropped wool, as pristinely white as the snowdrifts that lingered still along the shadowy, tree-line that bordered the pasture, the babes basked in the glory of the warm winter day.

After nearly thirty minutes of standing at the edge of the nursery, braced against a weathered fencepost, I carefully trekked down the mud-slicked embankment, climbed into my jeep, laid my camera aside, and prepared to pull away from the Amish farmer's pasture. With a last glance over my shoulder at the placid flock beyond, I remembered why I left the city behind.

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